The Choke Read online

  Praise for The Eye of the Sheep

  ‘Full of achingly true insights into family violence and the way trauma passes from one generation to the next. Laguna dissolves the barriers between author and reader, getting the voice of odd, funny, love-hungry Jimmy so right that I still don’t quite believe he isn’t out there somewhere, spinning and spinning in ever-faster circles.’

  —Emily Maguire, author of An Isolated Incident

  ‘The power of this finely crafted novel lies in its raw, high-energy, coruscating language which is the world of young Jimmy Flick, who sees everything…The Eye of the Sheep is an extraordinary novel about love and anger, and how sometimes there is little between them.’

  —Miles Franklin Literary Award 2015, judges’ report

  ‘Sofie Laguna faultlessly maintains the storytelling voice of Jimmy, who is oblivious in some ways and hauntingly knowing and observant in others. There are many places in which such a story could tip over into sentimentality or melodrama, but Laguna’s authorial control and intelligence keep the story on track and the reader engaged and empathetic, and she manages both the humour and the darkness of this story with great sensitivity and control.’

  —Stella Prize 2015, judges’ report

  ‘The greatest achievement here is making this family’s world not just compelling but utterly entertaining. Laguna does this by showing the way her characters are the sum of all the parts that make them…It is quite a feat to write characters with such nuance. In harnessing her storytelling facility to expose the flaws in the system with what is becoming trademark empathy, Laguna is an author proving the novel is a crucial document of the times.’

  —The Australian

  ‘This book should be impossibly bleak, but Laguna has managed to imbue it with luminosity. This is a story about how to find your place in the world and how to accept what you have been given. The Eye of the Sheep will break your heart—a small price to pay to hear Jimmy’s story.’

  —Readings

  ‘…an extraordinary, haunting tale about love, anger and family. Adopting the sweet but manic voice of six-year-old boy, Jimmy Flick, Laguna cleverly navigates the tensions of a struggling working-class family in this surprising, heartbreaking and funny story.’

  —Canberra Weekly

  ‘By getting inside Jimmy’s mind and showing what an amazing place it is, this book goes a long way towards explaining what a library of textbooks could not.’

  —Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Jimmy is a tour de force of a character, brilliantly maintained…Laguna’s great skill is in conveying contradictory human depths.’

  —Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘…[a] tender and delicate novel, rich with sympathy and understanding.’

  —Compulsive Reader

  ‘Sofie Laguna has perfected the voice of a child. The Eye of the Sheep is a dark tale told with perfection.’

  —Culture Street

  ‘If you liked Room, The Lovely Bones or The Rosie Project, you’ll like this too. The main character is a young boy, Jimmy Flick, who has a unique (and unspecified) way of looking at things. It’s such a joy to be presented with a character who thinks so differently and feels so authentic. Jimmy lives in a poor family where violence is never far from the surface and life is chaotic. This is compelling and arresting.’

  —Geelong Advertiser

  ‘Laguna has a way of beautifully illustrating the deepest of emotions, with Jimmy providing an alternative look at the world of domestic violence, love and family relations. Full of both happiness and heartbreak, this novel deals with elements of human nature in a deeply touching way.’

  —Weekend West

  ‘…truthful and beautiful.’

  —Newcastle Herald

  ‘A beautifully written novel, refreshingly raw, through the eyes of a child. I couldn’t put it down.’

  —Launceston Examiner

  Praise for One Foot Wrong

  ‘An extraordinary achievement…original and compelling…compels us to see our familiar world as new and intriguing—no small feat.’

  —Jo Case, Big Issue

  ‘…a book that intrigues and affects every essence of your humanity…a dark and terrible tale told in lyrical, poetic language and stark imagery.’

  —Australian Bookseller and Publisher

  ‘…intense, disturbing and hallucinatory.’

  —Kerryn Goldsworthy, Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘The language is pitch-perfect—it is the light in this dark tale…a haunting story of horror, but also of friendship and love…Despite the darkness of the subject matter, it is surprisingly uplifting, cathartic and affecting.’

  —Louise Swinn, The Age

  ‘…harrowing, beautifully written, insightful and absorbing…unique, forceful and absolutely hypnotic…Fresh, honest writing…makes this dark journey well worth taking.’

  —Emily Maguire, Canberra Times

  ‘An authentic voice, an evocation of childhood and memory that, for all its terrors, evokes the sublime, tragic moment when innocence submits to experience. Laguna creates a world and a character and a language that we become immersed within. That she does it with a subject matter of such destructive cruelty, that she does it with such rigour and power, is a testament to her craft, skill and maturity. This is the opposite of what the tabloids do: this is humane, passionate, true.’

  —Christos Tsiolkas

  Sofie Laguna’s second novel for adults, The Eye of the Sheep—shortlisted for the Stella Prize—won the 2015 Miles Franklin Literary Award and was longlisted for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Her first novel for adults, One Foot Wrong, published throughout Europe, the US and the UK, was longlisted for the Miles Franklin Literary Award and shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Literary Award. Sofie’s many books for young people have been published in the US, the UK and in translation throughout Europe and Asia. She has been shortlisted for the Queensland Premier’s Award, and her books have been named Honour Books and Notable Books by the Children’s Book Council of Australia. Sofie lives in Melbourne with her husband, illustrator Marc McBride, and their two sons.

  First published in 2017

  Copyright © Sofie Laguna 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Excerpt on pp. 113–14 taken from ‘Eldorado’ by Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1849.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76029 724 4

  eISBN 978 1 76063 915 0

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Sandy Cull, gogoGingko

  For Marc, with love and gratitude

  In memory of Aileen

  Sapere aude

  Horace,

  First Book of Letters

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.<
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  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  PART TWO

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Part One

  1.

  Kirk turned his slingshot over in his hand. ‘This thing is going to hurt, Justine.’

  ‘Really hurt,’ said Steve.

  ‘Don’t smile, or I’ll aim it for the hole.’

  I closed my mouth. Some of the teeth were taking a long time to grow through the gum.

  Kirk pulled the elastic strap tight. ‘You’ve got ten seconds. One…two…three…four…five…’

  I took off through the trees as the numbers faded behind me.

  I ran beside the river, sometimes looking ahead, sometimes at the currents. Soon I heard Kirk and Steve following. We kept the same distances between us, not trying to run away, not trying to catch up. We knew where the branches came low and close to our faces, where the roots crossed the path like rope and where the fallen trunks tried to block the way. Kirk, Steve and me moved through the jungle like Pop and Sandy running from the Japs. Pop never knew what the war was for. Why a river of blood? Why so many boys? What was it flowed in the veins of those bastards?

  We ran and ran—they were not the enemy and I was not the prey. The river ran beside us, muddy and high, eating at the sides.

  ‘Coming, Justine!’ Kirk called.

  One day I’d have a boat ready. A raft of branches I’d weave together with Pop’s towrope. I’d hide it at the top of The Choke, in the trees that stood underwater.

  I turned and saw Kirk closer behind me now. I ran faster. I felt a sting in the back of my knee.

  ‘Got you!’ Kirk shouted.

  I turned and Kirk held up his slingshot. I kept running. I felt another sting on my leg. I screamed, and the galahs flew up out of the branches screeching and screaming at the same time as me. I turned again, and saw Kirk pick up another stone. I stopped, my face throbbing as I scraped up a handful of rocks and dirt. I ran at Kirk. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘No!’ All the cockatoos shrieked and blasted from the branches in sprays of white. I threw my dirt and rocks at Kirk.

  Kirk cried out, dropping his slingshot, hands to his eyes. I picked up another handful of rocks, as he stood spitting dirt, wiping it from his face. Then he turned and left the river trail, running through the trees to our hideouts. Steve followed and I was close behind.

  They tore at the branches of my hideout. They pulled away my bark-and-leaf walls, my towel-and-branch roof, my chimney of twigs. I threw rocks and dirt at them, then I ran to Kirk’s hideout and kicked at the top of the log. The log fell away, breaking into pieces. Kirk threw me on the ground and sat on me. I kicked and bucked, pushing up and down, twisting my head from side to side so that I saw the sky in pieces, dirt to sky dirt to sky dirt to sky.

  Steve held the blade of his pocketknife to my face. ‘Better close your mouth,’ he said. I spat in his face.

  ‘Ugh!’ He wiped his cheek and I pulled my arm out from under Kirk, knocking the knife from Steve’s hand. Steve tried to take hold of my ankles but I kicked my legs too fast for him to get a grip. Our faces were red and hot, our breath hard and fast as we fought and struggled against each other as if it was the same war Pop and Sandy fought. If you lost what was it flowed in your veins, for what reason?

  Kirk pinned my arms under his knees; I could only wriggle like a worm under the weight of his body. I pushed and grunted against him.

  ‘Enough,’ said Kirk and suddenly, as fast as we started, we stopped. Kirk put his hands in the air. ‘Smoko,’ he said, climbing off and sitting beside me.

  Steve let go of my ankles and looked for his knife in the leaves. The knife only had one small blade, eaten with rust, but Steve said Dad gave it to him. That the knife could kill. Steve carried it with him everywhere. I sat up and we shook dirt from our hair and faces and out from under our clothes. We pulled off our shoes and tipped out the stones. I lay beside Steve, his shoulder against mine.

  Kirk stood, hands in his pockets, looking up. The red gums leaned towards each other, as if they wanted to touch, the same as the banks of the river at The Choke. Kirk, Steve and me were held by the trees and their branches in the shapes of heads, faces trapped inside, pressing to see through the bark. Our three worlds joined. Our mothers were different but we all had the same name—Lee.

  Kirk walked into the triangle of our hideouts, where there was a ring of stones like the one around Pop’s fire. Steve and me followed. Kirk sat and pulled a wad of White Ox and a crumpled cigarette paper from his pocket. Steve and me sat too, watching as Kirk licked the shiny edge of the paper and rolled the tobacco into a cigarette. Stray pieces of tobacco stuck out each end, like a cigarette for a scarecrow. Kirk pulled a box of matches from his pocket. The cigarette glowed orange and Kirk coughed. He blew out the smoke and it billowed around his face. ‘Fuck,’ he said, coughing into the smoke. He passed it to Steve, who closed his eyes when the smoke went down, then blew it straight into the air in a stream, as if he had always been smoking and was good at it.

  I said, ‘My turn.’

  ‘You’re too young,’ said Kirk.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You’re only ten.’

  ‘How come Steve is allowed?’

  ‘He’s eleven.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Steve.

  ‘And you’re a girl.’

  ‘I can still smoke.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Kirk. ‘And don’t tell Pop.’

  I kicked at the dirt. But I didn’t want to smoke.

  Kirk and Steve passed the cigarette between them until it was so low it burned Kirk’s fingers. ‘Ouch!’ He flicked it into the air, then stubbed it out in the dirt with his boot. I scraped more dirt over the top. ‘Cigarette cemetery,’ said Kirk.

  We got up, walked down to the river and sat on the edge. We threw sticks as far as we could, then stones to sink the sticks. The Choke was where the river was at its thinnest, the banks like giant hands around a neck. After the rain the Murray couldn’t hold, and it flooded, so the trees stood underwater. They stayed living until The Choke dried out and you could see the black water stains left behind on the trunks. You could see the cod moving across the river bottom, slow enough to spear.

  We each picked up a stick and aimed. Kirk said, ‘If we had Pop’s Mauser we could shoot one and bring it home.’

  ‘Cook it on Pop’s fire,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Steve and Kirk.

  ‘Eat it with egg,’ I said.

  Kirk aimed his stick at the water. ‘Kapow,’ he said, jerking it back. ‘Sorry, fish.’

  Steve raised his stick and did the same. ‘Sorry, kangaroo,’ he said. ‘Kapow.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Fisherman!’ I said and shot my stick.

  Kirk and Steve laughed. We threw our guns out across the water and watched them fight the surface, then sink. Kirk said, ‘How about we leave you here, Justine? We could tie you to a tree. We could winch your mouth open so an owl could make a nest.�
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  Steve said, ‘Yeah, how about it?’

  I said, ‘Yeah, how about it?’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ said Kirk.

  ‘Yeah, maybe next time,’ I said.

  Kirk looked at the sky. ‘Better get back.’ We walked to our hideouts. Kirk came over and helped pick up my biggest branches, propping them against the pole-tree. Steve threw bark across the branches and pulled the towel tight for the roof. He took his knife from his pocket and cut the living branches for my shelf and Kirk shaped the esky. From inside my hideout I saw the forest between the branches. While Kirk and Steve fixed their hideouts, I scraped up piles of rocks and dirt as ammunition.

  Soon Kirk said, ‘Come on. Pop will be waiting.’ We stood and looked at our hideouts, at the ring of stones, at the trees and the sky. Then we walked slowly, away from the Murray, along the path back to Pop’s Three.

  2.

  Pop’s house stood at the top of three acres that he bought when he came back from the war. He got a job at the mills where he cut trees into sleepers for the railway. I’d rather cut the bastards then lay ’em, he said. When Pop was a prisoner in the war, the enemy made him lay a track between Burma and Siam for the Eastern Bullet. We were the living dead, Pop told the Isa Browns. We were ghosts. The house on Pop’s Three was pale green, stained with a line of dirt that rose up and down like a wave around the fibro. It was if the house had once stood underwater, like the trees at The Choke.

  When we went through the back gate Pop was sitting at his fire, smoking. He threw a small stick into the flames. ‘Tea’s in half an hour,’ he said. He got to his feet and crossed the yard to the kitchen.

  I never left Pop’s Three after Donna split. It was me that split her. I was breech, waiting inside her on my knees. I thought that was the right way to come out. Pop and Dad drove Donna to the hospital. Who comes out on their knees? Who comes into this world begging? I heard Pop ask the chooks. Poor bloody Donna. The doctor and the nurse put their hands on Donna’s stomach, trying to turn me, but I wouldn’t turn. I thought it was the right way. The breech nearly killed her. Donna stayed with Dad and me for three years, in the house in Moama, but she was sewn up so badly the stitches couldn’t hold; one by one they came apart, then when I was three years old she split for good. Pop asked Relle, Dad’s first wife, to take me. She said, Any kid but Donna’s. So I stayed with Pop.