An Open Swimmer by Tim Winton

spat.
    â€˜Well, I’m not going to tell anyone. I promise.’
    â€˜Arr.’
    â€˜Bloody beans,’ muttered Sean. He tore the label off and put the can in the flames.
    â€˜Eatin’ like the poorer classes, eh?’ Jerra said pointlessly.
    â€˜Like eating rabbit shit.’
    A crash in the bush.
    â€˜Close,’ said Sean.
    â€˜Should’ve brought the .22.’
    â€˜Even beans are better than roo.’
    Jerra poked the can with a stick. The fire was feeble.
    â€˜I’m thinking of leaving soon.’
    â€˜What? There’s a week left.’
    â€˜Yeah. Well I thought we might move on.’
    Sean was shaking his head, red eyes laughing.
    â€˜In the morning.’
    â€˜Shit, why not tonight?’
    â€˜Plenty of other places.’
    â€˜The old man of course. Geez. I don’t believe it.’
    â€˜You know how ol’ blokes like that are.’
    â€˜Yeah. But do you?’
    The fire smouldered, smoke easing from between the teeth of coals. Sean dragged the black can from the ashes.
    â€˜Doesn’t look like it’s gonna get any hotter without wood,’ he said, rolling it in the damp leaves at his feet.
    â€˜If you want some wood, there’s plenty o’ bush,’ Jerra said. ‘If yer not sure, the dead stuff usually burns best. You’ll probably find it lying on the ground.’
    Sean slapped beans onto the buckled plates.
    â€˜Here, smart-arse. Mind the bones.’
    Sean was calling, asleep in the VW. Jerra couldn’t stand it. He felt like going in there and throttling him. He sat by the circle of blackened rocks, scraping the soot away with a stick. The limestone showed dull white, bone, beneath. Dew settled on the back of his neck. No wind. Not a leaf moved.
    He left the fire. It was too late to bother about more wood. He stumbled down to the beach in the moonlight. The white flickered through the trees. The sand was loud. Footsteps crunched, the broken teeth of shells. Walking near the still shore, he saw the buried beam, longer and whiter in the moonlight.
    Difficult on the rocks. Shadows made it impossible to judge blackness as solid rock or air, and he fell a few times, opening an elbow and a shin. Feeling his way over the surfaces with his palms, he came upon the gulls, crowded, sleeping in a hollow. He avoided them, climbing closer to the water, slipping on the damp felt of algae.
    Orange and red, the fire lit a circle in front of the humpy, rippling shadows across the sand, lighting the eyes of the old man, squatting, staring in.
    He was cutting with little scissors, a pair of women’s nail scissors . . .  neighbours’ landmark, which the men . . . of old have set. Fifteen: A single . . . wit . . . ness shall not prevail against  . . .
    Rolling, rolling the stuff between his fingers.
    . . .  or see this great fire any more, lest I die  . .  .
    Jerra jumped from the last rock.
    . . .  And the rest shall hear, and fear, and shall never again commit any such evil among  . .  .
    The old man, without a shirt, stood up and backed away.
    â€˜No, not me. Go away. I had to!’
    Jerra stopped.
    â€˜No, hang on, it’s me.’
    The old man hobbled into the darkness of the humpy.
    â€˜Not all my fault. Don’t, no burning. Please!’
    â€˜Hey, it’s only me. It’s orright,’ called Jerra, going over to the hut.
    â€˜She sank it on purpose, you know. She ever tell you that? Did you ever . . . were you ever with her? Eh? Must’ve been the only one left in town, then. Was it yours? What she had in her? Not mine, oh no. Couldn’t’ve. Not that she’d know. A single witness . . .  go away.’
    â€˜I am,’ said Jerra, annoyed. ‘Tomorrow.’
    â€˜No. Go now. I loved, that’s somethin’.’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Been waiting, you know.