the distance, I see a vast chimney, a plume of red fire issuing from its blunt concrete snout, hundreds of metres in the air. There’s a heat shimmer in the atmosphere above the salt plains that run right up to the distant refinery gates.
Apart from the flames, I see no signs of life.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say.
‘It’s like the name implies.’ Ryan grins without humour. ‘Paradise on earth.’
As we drive, he gives me a little background on the Paradise, Port Marie and Little Falls triumvirate. ‘Paradise was a hard living fishing port until that whole industry fell apart early last century and people like my folks began moving in and gentrifying — you get the “ocean 126
views” and “lifestyle” without the price tag, and it’s only an hour and a half from the city. The old-school locals hate it. Hate us, I suppose. Port Marie’s always been like Paradise’s more genteel big sister — with better real estate and water views, less heavy pollution. Except for where we’re headed, that is. Little Falls is exactly as the name implies: it’s inland and features a small set of waterfalls that no one ever visits.’
It’s an overcast day and everything is grey on grey.
Before we reach the obligatory Welcome to Port Marie signage, we turn off onto an unsealed road plagued by deep ruts and potholes filled with gravel and muddy water.
‘It’s like something out of Deliverance , huh?’ Ryan mutters tightly.
I have no idea what he means, so I say nothing, just grip the handhold on the front passenger door a little harder so I don’t look like I’m trying to throw myself at him.
A little later, we crunch to a stop outside an unfenced, double-storey, fibro beach shack that never started off pretty and has been allowed to enter serious eyesore territory. Part of it was half-heartedly painted peach many, many moons ago and the rest is well, fibro 127
grey, with a flat tin roof and cheerless lace curtains at each of the windows. The front yard is scattered with the carcasses and insides of slowly rusting machines, an overturned tin boat and three uncoupled outboard motors.
‘Richard’s into extreme biking,’ Ryan explains, popping the driver’s door then getting mine. ‘Lives with his old man; mother ran out on them years ago, so housekeeping isn’t a major priority.’
The contrast with Lauren’s domestic circumstances is breathtaking. ‘Nothing white-on-white about this place,’ I say.
‘You’re beginning to get the picture,’ he replies, a little ruefully. ‘Come on. There aren’t any dogs. Well, not that you can see anyway.’
With that cryptic remark, we head up the gravel-strewn drive together.
‘He left school last year, midway through,’ Ryan murmurs as he presses the doorbell. ‘Now he just races motocross bikes, does the occasional exhibition or freestyle gig.’
I raise my eyebrows and he explains patiently, ‘You know, arena racing, aerial stunt work — real daredevil, shit-your-pants stuff. After Lauren vanished, he had even 128
less reason to do anything else except occasionally go on the circuit. He’s quite in demand, apparently.’ Ryan gives the doorbell another shove. ‘He’s a freak. I don’t know how he can live like this.’
‘He might say the same about you,’ I mutter.
The door swings open and a sweaty, whiskery old guy, with more beard than I have ever seen in my life, peers out. He’s wearing an open shirt, heavily stained under the armpits, and beat-up short shorts of an indeterminate colour that show off way too much bare, hairy leg for my liking. His distended, hairy, peek-a-boo midriff is unavoidably thrust into the space between us.
He snarls, ‘Don’t want any. Gonna set the dogs on you if you don’t piss off and quick.’
Ryan gives me a look as if to say, See?
And I get it, and get that Ryan somehow gets it too, because there can be no dogs with me standing here, large as life, the stiff breeze carrying my scent
Apart from the flames, I see no signs of life.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say.
‘It’s like the name implies.’ Ryan grins without humour. ‘Paradise on earth.’
As we drive, he gives me a little background on the Paradise, Port Marie and Little Falls triumvirate. ‘Paradise was a hard living fishing port until that whole industry fell apart early last century and people like my folks began moving in and gentrifying — you get the “ocean 126
views” and “lifestyle” without the price tag, and it’s only an hour and a half from the city. The old-school locals hate it. Hate us, I suppose. Port Marie’s always been like Paradise’s more genteel big sister — with better real estate and water views, less heavy pollution. Except for where we’re headed, that is. Little Falls is exactly as the name implies: it’s inland and features a small set of waterfalls that no one ever visits.’
It’s an overcast day and everything is grey on grey.
Before we reach the obligatory Welcome to Port Marie signage, we turn off onto an unsealed road plagued by deep ruts and potholes filled with gravel and muddy water.
‘It’s like something out of Deliverance , huh?’ Ryan mutters tightly.
I have no idea what he means, so I say nothing, just grip the handhold on the front passenger door a little harder so I don’t look like I’m trying to throw myself at him.
A little later, we crunch to a stop outside an unfenced, double-storey, fibro beach shack that never started off pretty and has been allowed to enter serious eyesore territory. Part of it was half-heartedly painted peach many, many moons ago and the rest is well, fibro 127
grey, with a flat tin roof and cheerless lace curtains at each of the windows. The front yard is scattered with the carcasses and insides of slowly rusting machines, an overturned tin boat and three uncoupled outboard motors.
‘Richard’s into extreme biking,’ Ryan explains, popping the driver’s door then getting mine. ‘Lives with his old man; mother ran out on them years ago, so housekeeping isn’t a major priority.’
The contrast with Lauren’s domestic circumstances is breathtaking. ‘Nothing white-on-white about this place,’ I say.
‘You’re beginning to get the picture,’ he replies, a little ruefully. ‘Come on. There aren’t any dogs. Well, not that you can see anyway.’
With that cryptic remark, we head up the gravel-strewn drive together.
‘He left school last year, midway through,’ Ryan murmurs as he presses the doorbell. ‘Now he just races motocross bikes, does the occasional exhibition or freestyle gig.’
I raise my eyebrows and he explains patiently, ‘You know, arena racing, aerial stunt work — real daredevil, shit-your-pants stuff. After Lauren vanished, he had even 128
less reason to do anything else except occasionally go on the circuit. He’s quite in demand, apparently.’ Ryan gives the doorbell another shove. ‘He’s a freak. I don’t know how he can live like this.’
‘He might say the same about you,’ I mutter.
The door swings open and a sweaty, whiskery old guy, with more beard than I have ever seen in my life, peers out. He’s wearing an open shirt, heavily stained under the armpits, and beat-up short shorts of an indeterminate colour that show off way too much bare, hairy leg for my liking. His distended, hairy, peek-a-boo midriff is unavoidably thrust into the space between us.
He snarls, ‘Don’t want any. Gonna set the dogs on you if you don’t piss off and quick.’
Ryan gives me a look as if to say, See?
And I get it, and get that Ryan somehow gets it too, because there can be no dogs with me standing here, large as life, the stiff breeze carrying my scent
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