In the only shop in town Cammy could not only feel that same invisible hand in his pocket rinsing him for change, but had the sensation that it was laughing in his face as it did so, had cut a hole in his pocket, all of them, had lifted his wallet, turned his socks inside out, even cashed the travellers’ cheques his mum had given him as a going-away present. On the bus he had told Erin how he burned through his savings when he first arrived—a year of work, frugal living, staying with his mum, gone within two months of sharing dorms in hostels, pre-loading on bag-in-a-box wine and nursing a single schooner at the bar—not knowing beforehand how little his currency was worth now compared to the Aussie dollar, propped up by Asian investment in mining (which was where the “real money” was, he said) and having to find work much sooner than he intended.

  He did a month on an oyster boat, where he spent three weeks in his cabin puking into a bucket and couldn’t quite get the knack for shucking till the day they dumped hm back on land, before landing a gig in a rib restaurant in Brisbane, earning twenty bucks an hour returning overcooked steaks to the kitchen on behalf of a non-tipping punter who would drown the thing in ketchup anyway. He’d assured the manager he wasn’t just another backpacker who would leave them in the lurch after a couple months, money in his pocket, chasing some girl across to Darwin or whatever. “Of course not,” he’d said during the interview to the Dutch guy, greased back hair, shined pointy leather shoes, black shirt, skinny, like a leather bag of spanners, kind of guy who owner either a flick knife or a comb that looked like a flick knife. Possibly both.

  Cammy insisted he was in it for the long haul, said he’d already been round the country, lied about how long he’d been there and about how he wanted to stay for a second year, needed a steady income, an employer… Then, when he saved enough money to continue travelling, he lied that he had to go back home, something about how the student loans company were after him, and hopped on the bus to Byron bay. It was in that restaurant where, having a couple drinks with his colleagues after work, that he formed his beer theory, where one hour at minimum wage equates to approximately one beer in a city centre bar.

  “Five quid an hour,” he explained to Erin, “gets you one beer in a city centre bar back home. Twenty bucks an hour gets you one beer in any bar in Australia.”

  Neither Erin or Molly were exactly whelmed by this revelation. And it certainly did not apply here in this tiny shop.

  “Twelve dollars for a wee jar of pesto?” Erin made a face like someone had reheated fish in a staffroom microwave. “It even says ninety-nine cents on it!”

  Molly quietly shushed her. Again, she agreed, but didn’t want to be rude to the owner of the only shop in the vicinity, even if he was a fucking thief, watching them from the fort of unopened cardboard boxes around his till.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Cammy lifted a box of wine. “This is fifteen bucks in Brisbane.”

  “How much is it here?” asked Erin.

  Cammy turned the box over. “Doesn’t say.”

  “Forty,” said the owner.

  “Forty?” said Molly, unable to help herself. Then she said, “Fuck it,” took the box of wine, the spaghetti, the jar of pesto and a bag of potato chips to the cash desk, paid, and left the shop. Erin and Cammy followed her outside.

  Cammy at least made a show of fumbling for his wallet.

  “It’s fine,” said Molly. “It’s fine.”

  They helped themselves to a coffee cup each from next to the coffee machine in the lobby and went up their room to share the wine. Molly opened the door to the balcony and Cammy rounded up three plastic garden chairs for them to sit on. Erin set to opening the box, extracting the plastic nozzle and filling their cups to the brim.

  “I once drank so much of this at a party that the next morning all I puked up was purple dust. Hadn’t had any water and I was so dehydrated. Was alright though. Managed to sweep it up with a dustpan and brush.”

  Molly managed a smile.

  They hadn’t noticed the sound of the buses but the voices and footsteps got their attention. Cammy leaned out over the balcony and looked around the side of the building.

  “That’s everyone back from work.”

  Molly jumped to her feet, grabbed the spaghetti and pesto from her bed and made her way down to the communal kitchen, stepping over the congealed-milk puddle without looking at it, and reserved them a gas burner before they were all taken, the kitchen suddenly a flurry of tired backpackers eager to get their dinner on before the hanger took over.

  The entire packet of spaghetti and pesto fed the three of them, eating it from chipped but clean crockery on a couch that smelled like feet, using cutlery each of them turned over several times before using lest they feel that tell-tale texture of hardened food when they took a bite. Erin had boiled the kettle and run it over the forks just to be sure, much to the annoyance of another guest waiting their turn to fill a plastic cup of overpriced imported ramen.

  A couple of bros cracked open beers and one of them put a DVD of Super Troopers on the little TV and didn’t return.

  “What on earth are we watching?” said Molly.

  The other guests seemed friendly enough, said “Hey, how you doing?” or gave them a nod. Mostly they were tired, dirty, eager for something to eat, desperate for a shower. Cammy washed their bowls and forks in the outside sink and they went back up to their balcony where they sat in silence. Two girls in the room next-door came out and said hello, bowing a little as they did so, ate a cup of instant noodles each.

  “What time did they say the banana bus was tomorrow?”

  “Five?” said Molly.

  “We going for it?”

  “Are we?” Molly said, directing the question at Erin. Erin looked into her cup of wine. “Erin?” she said again.

  Erin didn’t reply, sighed, scratched the back of her hand.

  “How’s about we give it a day?” said Molly. “Settle in. See how we feel about the place. How does that sound, Erin?”

  She put her hand on her friend’s knee.

  “Sounds alright to me,” said Cammy, trying to be helpful. “We can have a wander, see the sights, get a feel for the place.”

  It did mean at least another day of paying for her friend, not to mention at least another twenty-four hours spent in this dump, but she wasn’t convinced she could spend twelve hours picking bananas in the rain tomorrow any more than her friend could.

  “I’ve got my laptop with me,” said Cammy. “It’s a tiny thing but I’ve got a few films on a hard drive if you, I dunno, fancied watching a film or that. And I’m pretty sure there’s wi-fi here.”

  Erin looked up. “That actually sounds nice,” she said.

  Cammy dragged his mattress through to their room where they spent the rest of the night and the whole next day curled up in their sleeping bags, watching films on his laptop and the rain lashing the balcony through the open door.