Category C (Adult)
Name: Chris Pearson
Title: Bucket
Place: THIRD
For the life of him, Steven Murney could not drop off. 11.40 pm and his mind buzzed
like the alarm clock beside his bed. The clock numbers glowed red while the
insomniac glowered. Normally, he loved playing with words, but right now he just
wanted to switch off his mind.
Just over an hour ago, he had climbed under the cotton sheet to join his wife. Then,
according to the Bureau, it was still 23 degrees and judging from her soft breathing,
she was still awake.
The fan on the chest of drawers was humming resonantly as it blew the warm air
back and forth.
“Did you wash your feet before you came to bed?”
“Yes, of course." He rolled over to place an arm around her waist.
“It’s too hot for that.”
He rolled back over to his side of the bed and lay on his back.
Between his toes he could feel the blades of cut grass and other garden detritus
collected during his nightly watering quest. He splayed his toes and rubbed his feet
on the fitted sheet.
If it weren't for the heat he'd have been snoring long ago. The nightly workout with
the buckets of saved bathwater was usually enough to see him off quickly. For two
summers he'd lugged the milky water around the garden, accompanied always by
his Alsatian George.
Tonight, owing to the lingering heat, he had watered later than he would have liked.
“Steve, give it a break. You’re doing my head in.” His wife had been sprawled on the
three-seater watching the pre-recorded news. Overhead, the ceiling fan chopped
dutifully and the drawn blinds danced and kicked against the window sills.
“One more trip and I’m done.”
He paused in front of the telly, drawn by the synoptic chart and the army of 30 plus
temperatures that marched across the nation. George slobbered expectantly at the
side door. Steven had made a point of watching the weather report just to confirm
that the Bureau of Meteorology was right. It was in his ‘favourites’ now, the BOM. A
quick click and the next five days’ weather was his to make provisions for.
“Another fine day ahead of us tomorrow as the same high pressure trough continues
to bring north-westerlies and clear skies towards the south-east...”
“Paul Higgins says Fine!” For fuck’s sake, it hasn’t rained for a month and he thinks
it’s fine.” And shaking his head, he looked into one of the buckets and noted a fine
black pube floating on the surface.
If he were to be honest with himself, he took a perverse delight in the doomsday
prophesies on the nightly news. The government's continued insistence on stagethree water restrictions gave him a secret joy. This was the war that as a boy he had
always wanted to live through. He felt stoic and driven. This would be his Battle of
Britain, translated ten thousand miles south and half a century forward. Churchill
nodded approvingly as he carefully poured the buckets into the tin watering can and
then measured out the contents at the mulched base of each rose bush. “We shall
defend our island of greenery, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight in the
gardens and in the fields and we will never surrender!”
The neighbours had though. Andrew and Tuong had run up the white flag last
summer, ripping out all the established hydrangeas and azaleas, and digging up the
lawn. Now it was a sea of native grasses, ornamental rocks and scoria. He
suspected they had just used the drought as an excuse to bring down the Old World
order. Still, at least they had a garden of sorts – unlike Frank and Sal who had just
given up altogether. Banned from watering by hose, their silver birch had dropped its
leaves in late February last year and had remained stubbornly dormant ever since.
Only their weeds grew with any vigour now, poking through the cracks in the woven
wire fence.
The whirr of the fan, comforting at first in its regularity, soon became the soundtrack
to his restless mind. What if the Google van drove down his street tomorrow? They
were due to film his once verdant street. Now, the effects of the drought, together
with the neighbours' inaction would be recorded for all prospective house buyers to
see. You could take twenty or thirty thousand off the price of his house right now.
Perhaps he could replant and water the neighbour's gardens? Or would that be
taking things too far? Steven's thoughts soon oscillated between the lists of
unaccomplished work, forgotten appointments and looming disasters that awaited
him tomorrow. He would need to get up, do something - walk George - and then
return to bed and try to sleep all over again.
Stepping outside, the night air offered only momentary relief from the suffocating
house. The humidity was disorienting and intoxicating. The heat could be survived,
too, if you were prepared to change your expectations - the secret was to let sleep
come naturally, not to force it, and meanwhile just get on with living. He would go for
a night stroll. A one-in-the-morning-walk through the side streets and down to
Scotchman's Creek.
For a brief moment he considered walking out the side gate in just his boxer shorts
and bare feet - there would scarcely be a soul around. But then he imagined a lonely
police car sidling up beside him and an unwanted interrogation, the possibility of him
being mistaken for that sicko who had been flashing along the creek in recent
months. And besides, as tough as his feet had become from a long barefooted
summer, he doubted they would be a match for broken glass or discarded syringes.
He had an old pair of rubber thongs in the shed. They'd do. Inside the laundry, he
rummaged through the dirty washing basket in search of a t-shirt and shorts. He
daren't return to the bedroom and risk waking his wife who would be snoring by now.
There were no shorts, but he did find his gardening t-shirt, slightly whiffy, but
preferable to being mistaken for a pervert.
The night was breathless as he carefully shut the side gate. George pulled
expectantly at the lead while his master straightened out the tangle of earbud wires
and selected a soundtrack for the nocturnal trek. My Friend the Chocolate Cake
would do nicely. He smiled to himself at the thought of this unplanned pleasure. If he
were exhausted tomorrow - he corrected himself - today, he would not be Robinson
Crusoe. He could spend the morning ostensibly reworking the Smith Street proposal,
catch up with some emails and then reschedule the afternoon meeting to next
Monday.
Three blocks from home, near the old fire station, Steven’s favourite song began:
"Let's go out tonight. The sky's so unfamiliar..." The singer’s breathy words offered
companionship and the violins swelled like Steven’s throat. Overhead, spied through
the canopy of oak trees, a lone fruit bat beat its leathery wings. This precious, secret
time, otherwise wasted in sleep was a revelation to him. While the rest of Oakleigh
writhed in stuffy bedrooms or slept guiltily beneath quilts under air-conditioners, he
was truly alive. "They don't know what they're missing," the lead singer suggested, in
perfect unison with his own thoughts. And then...nothing. T he phone’s battery died.
And that's when he saw the figure in his peripheral vision. At first he thought he had
stumbled across a burglar, or worse, lurking in the front garden of the Californian.
There, behind a silver birch, was a large man standing perfectly still, his back to
Steven. George, as if understanding his master's confusion and fear stopped
abruptly too. The man, his bald head gleaming in the nearby street light, continued to
stare towards the house, unmoved by the walkers' presence.
Then, without warning, George began to growl.
"Fuck!" Caught off guard, the man jumped slightly, his body tightening. He sprung
around, alert, in his hand a trigger spray gun connected to a garden hose.
From the pattern of the spray, illuminated by the street lamp, Steven could tell he
had it set on ‘shower’.
“Jesus, mate! Your dog scared the shit out of me.”
Steven’s eyes narrowed on the spray gun; the man’s pink hand glistened and
dripped. His index finger continued to press the trigger.
“You right, mate?”
Steven stood there, eyes widening, mouth slightly agape. The water flowed from the
trigger nozzle, creating an ever-widening puddle on the rich lawn. Then Steven
became aware of a tightening above his temples and something catch in the back of
his throat. ‘What the hell are you doing?” he asked the bald man.
“I’m sorry?” the man with the hose replied. Momentarily, his finger eased off the
trigger and the shower was reduced to a dribble.
Unconsciously, Steve's chest swelled and he found his grip on the Alsatian's lead
tighten. "You...with yer...yer fucking hose...the rest of us with buckets." His words,
spoken through clamped teeth and with set jaw were a dog-angry growl. In perfect
communion with his master, George's nape hair bristled.
"Not my problem, mate," the man returned, and his index finger once more squeezed
the trigger. "Now, how about you piss off before I call the cops?" He turned his back
on Steve and his attention towards the green carpet at his feet, which was already
glistening from the steady spray of hose water.
"No!" Steven replied. "I'm not going anywhere.” The resolve in his voice almost
surprised him. “I'll call the police for you. You can explain to them your nocturn..."
The bald man let go of the trigger and turned with purpose towards Steven. "Listen
here you little prick...", but he had nothing more to say. Instead, he raised the gun
slowly, twisted the nozzle to 'jet', pointed it at Steven's face and pulled the trigger.
The force of jet of water momentarily blinded Steven who had to raise both hands to
shield his eyes and restore his vision.
What he saw then was George, leash trailing, leap the small brick fence and lunge at
the bald man, toppling him backwards. The dog's teeth firmly gripped the wrist of the
bald man's gun hand as he shook it violently. How quickly the man's contempt turned
to entreaty. "Oh shit! Get him off! Get him!"
Before he could stop himself, Steven leapt the fence and began slapping at George's
head. "Off! Off!"
The Alsatian opened his mouth. A string of spittle pearls dangled from his front
incisors to the torn jammy skin.
"Oh, that's fucked that is! Aw look at my arm! Look at it!" The bald man, sat upright,
nursing his chewed arm. Immediately, the hose, through the build up of pressure,
sprang off the tap, releasing a violent spray of water. "You're dog's dead!"
Illuminated by the street light, Steven could see enough of the man's wrist to know
that he needed help. Blood was pissing out. George's teeth had shredded an artery
perhaps. Whatever the prognosis, the man's wound bled freely; his lap was now a
spongy mess and a small puddle of blood was beginning to spoil the lawn.
The man was clearly in shock. Steven could see his knees shiver and knock against
one another.
"I'm calling an ambulance," Steven stated calmly. "Just apply pressure to your arm."
Reaching into his short's pocket, Steven retrieved his dead phone and pressed triple
zero.
The pale man was lying on his back now, whimpering.
Steven could hear the blood pulse loudly behind his ears as he repeated the address
one more time.
Then, joined firmly by leash, Steven and George began to move quickly through the
deserted streets.
A light inside the man's house turned on. Soon a slender woman would open the
security door and question the night. If she stepped off the front verandah, she might
find her half-alive husband waiting in the wet grass for an ambulance.