Alky Bob's Story.
by Jackie Young.

I'm getting sick of this. You gotta give up the booze. You're gonna kill yourself, as sure as shit. Mason slammed the passenger door shut and stomped around to the driver's side. He slid the car into gear, did a u-ey and took off along the road past the mill. It lit up nearly all this end of the village. The river was calm and the reflection spread out almost a third of its width before disappearing into deep black darkness.
It wasn't called Big River Country for nothing. He turned off the sealed section into Carr's Lane. The road hadn't been graded since the last heavy fall and the ruts from the cane haulers made a drive-at-your-own risk pattern. The car lurched and Bob's inert form fell into Mason's lap. -Get off you stinking soak!
Shoving Bob back against the bench seat with his shoulder - both hands were needed here - he drove carefully over the drain and turned at the next right. The farmhouse was a solid, dull shape against the stand of jacarandas and bush scrub. The cane was two year old here and stood eight feet or more,tall and straight,like a living wall against the length of the track.
When he reached the creek, Mason pulled the ute into the clearing for the tractors near the shed. It wasn't far to the old van Bob used as a doss house, but Bob could wait. The reeds seemed to shout out in the stillness as Mason pushed through to the dinghy.
Shark Creek was deep but not very wide at this point and it only took five minutes to cross to Turkey Island. He threw the rope around a branch , stepped ashore and strode straight ahead into the cane, the dark green closing in on him as if he didn't exist.Two minutes later Mason knew it was safe to turn on the torch. The only way anyone could see him now was from above and there were definitely no cops up there tonight. He had the crop hidden well. Dawn crept up on the egg shaped van that was home for Bob. It sat on a small concrete and dirt plot next to the barn. Half hidden by two passionfruit and wisteria vines, everything here was established and belonged to a wild tumbling order. Inside left over sausages and potatoes were decorated with a party of big black blowflies, a 1976 calender flapped in the summer breeze. The girl on it was dressed in a small pair of white shorts and a top that barely covered her. A red cat sat on a pile of newspapers, cards, old shirts , shorts and socks. There were matches, roll your own cigarette papers and a small leather tobacco pouch embossed with the initials R.R. The body on the bed stirred and dislodged the bed clothes, work gear and wet weather coats.
The cupboard in the corner was empty except for one hanger. On it hung a neatly ironed pair of black pants, completely free of lint and dust. A black shirt was draped over the top, its buttons bright and pearly white. The top shelf held the Akubra, also black and brushed to a smooth shine. And next to them sitting like the king of the castle, surveying the carnage all about and below, perched the finest pair of high heeled cowboy boots ever to to step into a bar.

Bob stepped down from the van and hitched up his torn shorts. Must do something about these. It was three days since his last drink and he felt almost sober. His mind was clear and relaxed and as he looked around he knew why he hadn't drunk himself to death yet. On days like this, here, it was good to be alive.The cane was as green as Ireland, stiff and straight. Almost electric, thought Bob, as if it had a life of it's own. He walked into the cane, down one of the small pathways used only by tractors and men with wet sacks when the cane needed to be burnt. The dew was resisting the sun in little mounds as if some fantastic colony of spiders had built their webs on the ground.
The droplets reflected all the colours of light as he carefully walked around them. His bare and battered human feet were almost obscene in contrast to this natural beauty. Bob relieved himself. He felt good. What will I do today? He remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He'd already promised that he'd chip that patch of cane down by the creek.The water looked very inviting, though. And chipping was dirty hot work, pushing in amongst the cane to get at the weeds. This cane was like a bloody woman. It looked beautiful and inviting but when you got too close, inside, it was suffocating.
No air, all over and around you. A man couldn't breathe. No, Bob said. I'll go fishing. I'll check my crab pots. He grabbed his fishing gear from beside the shed, pinched the dog's bone while he slept and then stopped . -I might be a while, he muttered. Might need some sustenance. He looked around, scratching his head, poking in the bushes under the van. Got it. He pulled an old piece of newspaper out from behind the stump. Carefully unwrapping it, he held the bottle of rum up to the light and grinned. Here's to the demon drink! It took a while to get over to the other side of the creek.
He didn't bother to check the crab pots too often. It wasn't legal and this part of the island belonged to Mason. He was an OK sort of bloke but he kept his farming activities to himself. Never asked for Bob's help - or anyone else's, come to that.. Bob thought it was strange. Mason was the local copper. He only farmed part time. You wouldn't think he'd need the dough. All this thinking was no good for a man. Bob dragged the wired cage up from the under roots of a big paperbark half sunk in the creek. The bloody trap was empty. He placed the still fleshy bone inside, pushed the pot down about two feet and settled himself back against the trunk. He had already extended his energy for the day. Time for a drink.
The ripple of the water lapping over his feet woke Bob. Shit! The throbbing in his head threatened to become an all too familiar pain. Just wait, don't move ,let it clear. Then he heard a motor. Open your eyes. I can't! It was pitch black. Christ, what's happening! A light was coming towards him, thin and watery, then stronger, closer. Bob held his breath,completely disoriented. The light shone until it filled his pupils then turned and left him blind. Broken voices carried over the water, above the throb of the engine. -Cut the motor...something back there.- Where? The boat circled round. Still frozen to his tree trunk Bob's mind cleared. He shivered, the damp air cutting through his scanty clothes. Suddenly he was afraid. With no light to see by, he slid down into the mud, grabbing at branches.His mouth was dryer than two dingo pups. -Gotta get out of here. Where's my tinny? Must have drifted off.

His mind was racing now, not coherent but flashes of ideas. Get out...no boat...the wharf. Maybe there was one tied up on the other side of the island. Sometimes the boys on the cane barge left one there. Bob struggled to his feet. -Shit! No shoes! He hated walking through the bush at night with no shoes- not when he was sober anyway. Bloody snakes everywhere! But there was no way he was going to stay here.
Something about this place gave him the willies. The easiest way to reach the wharf was to skirt around the island shore. Once in the cane Bob could lose himself until dawn .
Maybe that was the thing to do? But then Bob thought of all the creatures in the cane, rats and spiders, snakes. He saw enough of them when he had the DTs, he wasn't going to face them by choice. Sometimes the ground fell away sharply and he slid down a tree root into the creek. But he wasn't staying in that water.
If there was one thing Bob hated more than snakes it was sharks! Eventually he came to the point. The land here was cleared for cane right to the creek bank. Bob's breathing was coming hard now, his legs and arms were cut and scratched and the mozzies were eating him alive. To continue around would take another hour and he just couldn't do it. If he cut straight across he was pretty sure he'd come out at the old abandoned homestead and wharf in about fifteen minutes.
The cane faced him like a hostile crowd but he pushed through, again and again until he fell onto open ground. He raised his head , eyes straining to make out the bare patch of dirt in front of him. A lamp came on. He stood up, confused. The old McMahon place was empty. Had been for years. Maybe he should....Bob froze blinded to the spot as the searchlights came on. Dogs came out of nowhere. A shot rang out. He dropped like a stone. He crawled out of the light and across the dirt, leaden rain followed him across the open ground. Shit! His brain was still addled by yesterday's booze but his body was working on adrenalin now. Gotta get to the cane!

Instinct took over. Twisting and writhing his body over the dirt like a lizard diving for cover, he reached the edge of the cane and pushed himself in, staying at root level. When he felt the stalks close in around and on top of him he suddenly changed direction. Keep down, keep going!
He had been blinded by the lights but now there was nothing to see. The blackness smothered him , fear pushed him on. There was no light and then he realised no sound either. He stopped, frozen to the spot. His arms were wrapped around his head and the next clump of cane. His face down in the dirt.
He tried to breathe quietly, to stifle the gasps that ripped his chest You need to get to the creek before dawn! This impossible command took hold of his mind and he started moving again. Slowly, carefully trying not to make more than a slight rustle, not to move the cane tops more than the wind. It would be virtually impossible for them to find him before light.-How I got out of there, I'll never know. Moved so bloody fast me legs couldn't keep up. What do ya think about that, eh Corp?

The red cat spiked it's ears and nuzzled into the crook of Bob's knee.It didn't answer.-Who do think it was? Must have been bloody Mason – it's his place. But I'm sure I saw two blokes behind them lights. I heard the other one yell out but for the life of me, I can't place him. Who do ya think it might be?
Corp still didn't answer so Bob gave him a sharp shove. Steer clear of him for a while, I suppose. Maybe it'll all blow over. What do you think? Stupid bloody cat. Never do anything but eat my bait. Still a man needed a mate. Corpus Christie, or was it Corpuscle..forgotten where your name came from now, know it was because you're red. Now where'd I put that bottle?

The sun was flashing on the river .Two middle aged women sitting in the beer garden of the Harwood Hilton paused as an elderly man shuffled up to the table. His skin was leather tough on the bare arms and below his torn shorts. He was wearing two different coloured thongs and his feet were calloused like his hands. He seemed clean enough but there was not enough water in the river to get the dirt from under those nails. ...How do you do, Missus. Lovely day isn't? You ladies here to celebrate?...Don't you start sweet talking me, Bob Riley. Not after the act you put on last week. I thought you were on the wagon? -Well, Missus, a man has to break free sometimes. But I certainly meant no offence. ..You arrive on my front verandah roaring drunk, singing and cursing at the top of your lungs and smelling worse than the dogs. ..My sincere apologies, Missus.
But why didn't you tell me to go home? This was said in all sincerity. Bob bent over to take their glasses. He'd made an attempt to shave recently because there were several nicks on and under his chin. Not surprising really because his hands shook so much as he stacked the empties that the other woman sat back, fully expecting to take the lot in her lap. ..Send you home, you silly old fool. I tried. Mary, Mother of God, I tried. You wouldn't go. The men were all out late and I had no choice but to sit in the flamin' car and TAKE YOU HOME.! The car still stinks. Don't you act innocent with me, Bob Riley. Next time I'll call the police.
Bob's face was turning from pale and bloodless to a deep pinky/purple tinge. A large tear dropped into the beer suds of the glasses he still held tight to his chest. He said nothing more. Mortified, he shuffled away. The interior of the bar was cluttered. There were plaques on the walls for cricket, darts, football and fishing. The men around here also rode, shot and fucked everything they could . There was no refinement, no pretence. Bob was still collecting the glasses, quietly now ,subdued and shadowy in the background. There were two small tables in the corner of the bay window - part of the last owner's attempt to 'renovate'.

Bob wiped one down. He had his back to the two men at the other table. They were oblivious to him, wrapped up in their own conversation. Mason and his mate were arguing. Bob stiffened, straightened up suddenly and turned to go. The glasses didn't turn with him. They seemed to have a life of their own, hanging like a crystal tower in mid air and then separating one by one, falling like rain and then bouncing back into life as a multitude of shards and splinters. The whole pub went quiet, cowered under the maelstrom and the only reality was Bob running through the front door like a cat with a burning tail.
He needed to think. They knew where he lived. He'd have to rough it for a while. But there were a few things he had to get first. Wait till dark but keep moving. Finally he reached the drain. He'd run several kilometres from one farm to the next. Between the drain and the road there was a grassy hollow that Bob often used to shelter on stinking hot days. It was also one of his stashes. The bottle was half buried in the mud,the liquid, as he poured it down his throat, was like meeting God. The fire ran through his veins and he shook himself just like his mutt Billy did after a swim. It took several minutes before he could think. Who the fuck are they? What's going on?

They were serious, he knew that. He had to hide. Not here. Somewhere they really wouldn't find him. Bob looked over the edge of the drain at the black sky. The lights of the mill shone out like a beacon over the sea of dark moving cane. He had an idea. Slowly - and not before he carefully stored the half bottle of Bundy down his trousers - Bob moved off toward the light. The mountain loomed up like a black cloud in front of the mill. Only small safety lights edged it's ground rim and they were twenty feet apart.
During the season this giant heap of bagasse wasn't needed for the boilers; the harvesting process itself provided all the fuel necessary for the huge fires to burn. Light flashed on the road in front of him and Bob ducked down behind an empty diesel barrel. The cane truck rumbled past, taking up the full width of the road into the main part of the mill. It's huge wheels hit the gravel and threw up a spay of stones. They hit the drum like bullets.

There was a sense of urgency now as he slunk over to the far side of the mound. Giant blue tarps stretched taught over a belly of black bagasse, the dense fibre of the cane. Bob started tunnelling, careful to spread the stuff back under the further edge of the tarp. Can't leave any signs that I'm here. When his burrow was big enough he slid in and for the first time that night he felt safe.
The rumbling trucks and the constant throbbing of the mill faded into oblivion. Rum and exhaustion took over. Not far away the lights of a ute came on and the car inched forward parallel to Bob's cubby hole. The mill manager picked up his mobile. - Mason? Got him. Smiling, he drove on through the main gates of the mill. The dozer driver had his instructions. It seemed strange to him but when the head bloke tells you to jump you jump.
So here he was ready to top up the boiler, even though it wasn't the off season yet. He brought the scoop in low and dug into the mound where Thommo had loosened the tarp. They only wanted a few scoops but it had to be from this section - the engineer must have worked it out or something.. Flicking the switch, he lifted the scoop up and turned towards the mill . Bloody night shift!
Half and hour and I'll be in front of the telly. The dozer lurched forward, the driver didn't notice the empty rum bottle fall from the scoop into the ditch below.