Harris sits there for a long moment before suddenly speaking. ‘Snowie offered me a job.’
My head whips in Harris’s direction.What?
Dad has stopped dead in his tracks. Then he reaches slowly for the fridge door. Pulls it open. Takes out the milk carton. Closes the fridge.
I blink between Harris and Dad. It feels strangely like I’m holding my breath.
Dad holds the carton in his hand, looking at Harris. ‘Why’d you tell me that, son?’
‘Just did.’ Harris shrugs, as though it’s unimportant. But his eyes are focused on my father. ‘Snowie offered – I didn’t accept. Said I’d think about it.’
Dad meets his stare. ‘D’you know what there is to think about?’
Harris’s pause is as small as his nod. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I know.’
‘And what do you know?’ Dad asks.
Harris reaches for the glass in front of him. Doesn’t raise it yet, just looks at it. Then he seems to come to some sort of decision.
He looks up at Dad again. ‘Snowie’s been moving gear around the stretch between Ouyen and Five Mile for a while. Nothing large – sticks of weed, pills. Friday night deals. But he’s hooked up in Mildura now, he said. I get the impression he’s moved business north. Started bigging up. And the product has changed. Ice, not weed.’
Air escapes my lungs, soft and shaky. Does Harris know what he’s doing, what he’s saying? Looking at his face, I’m pretty sure he does.
Dad makes a heavy sigh, as though Harris has just gone through a kind of test and Dad’s relieved he passed. He puts the milk on the kitchen bench and pulls out the chair opposite Harris, sinks into it. ‘Ice is screwing up a lot of people in this area, you know. A lot of families.’
‘I know it,’ Harris says.
He shares a glance with me and I have a feeling we’re both thinking about the same thing: Craig Davies. But I’m still shocked. Dad is a police officer. Harris isn’t stupid, he has to understand what sharing this information with my dad will mean.
Has Harris tried ice? Does he know about Gavin Donovan? My head suddenly crowds with other questions, but this isn’t the time to ask any of them. Some kind of bass chord has been struck between my father and Harris: a deep thread of communication I’m loathe to break.
‘So Snowie’s looking for a small-time dealer to fill his shoes down here,’ Dad says.
‘More like a few local mates to act as foot-soldiers in Mildura. That was the gist, I think.’ Harris sips his drink, studies the tabletop gravely. ‘Snowie’s never been a real player. But he’s trying to keep his dad propped up with the pub, and I reckon he might be getting in over his head this time.’
‘His mate Anderson is going with him to Mildura?’
‘Ando’s not local, so he doesn’t care where he goes. Ando’s the muscle – and Snowie’s where the money is. He’ll follow Snowie, yeah.’
‘All good to know,’ Dad says. He waits a beat. ‘Still begs the question of why you’re telling me.’
Harris considers his glass. ‘Well, Snowie’s a mate. I don’t want him to get sucked too deep into this shit. And you and Amie have always been straight with me, so I figured I’d return the favour.’ His eyes dart towards me as he pauses. His teeth snag at his bottom lip again and again. ‘But the main reason is because…I’m kind of fucked. I’m almost completely broke, but I can’t live at home.’
He doesn’t say why, and we certainly don’t need him to explain.
‘Someone fronted me the deposit for the car,’ he goes on, ‘which is a good escape plan, but I still owe money. And Dad… Dad owes money. Big money. I’m laid up with my leg, so no job prospects on the horizon for a couple of months. If I register for welfare I’ll be waiting three months for my first cheque to arrive. But I can’t live on Westie’s couch forever. There’s other stuff involved as well, personal stuff…’
Dad just looks at him. I look at him. I’d like to reach out and grab his hand, which is squeezing hard on his damp glass, but I don’t think Harris wants me to do that. After a second, he continues.
‘I don’t have a lot of options.’ Harris glances up, snorts. ‘I mean, I never considered a career as a drug dealer, y’know? The whole idea seems kind of revolting. But I need the money. Like, really. And it would make sense for me to take this job.’
He stops then, like he can’t keep going. His other hand comes up from his knee to rub across his mouth. His eyes look hollow. I have to press my lips together to stop myself from saying something, anything, to make him feel better. For a moment it’s as if time is frozen, just the three of us grouped around this tiny table, like a cinematic still. Insects buzz in the afternoon light outside the kitchen door to the workshop.
Dad doesn’t seem to know what to say either. He’s frowning hard, his mouth a puckered line. Then he sighs through his nose.
‘It would make sense. You’re right.’ He frowns even harder. ‘More importantly, it would make sense to Snowie.’
‘What?’ Harris says it half a second earlier than me.
