by David Vernon
The characters in this story are based on individuals, and actual events, described by the author’s father who was brought up in bush camps, living under canvas, throughout the South West of WA during the 1920s and ’30s. Events described occurred, according to the source, in mill towns such as Palgarup, Dean Mill and Dwellingup. The writer has drawn on these happenings to describe a situation that, whilst a work of fiction, aptly depicts an event that could conceivably have occurred in the early years of timber town Kalamunda in the hills east of Perth.
Gary Barber is a West Australian with a great love of local history, and his predecessors efforts to contribute to the success of his home state. Since retiring he has turned his attention from writing business reports to writing short stories based on times and events related to him by his parents. He lives in the Perth hills with his wife Ann and writes in order that his grandchildren have a record and an appreciation of the efforts of their ancestors.
Run for Your Life
— Shannon Garner
“M-m-move along.”
I sound like a scratched record as I direct three teenagers back to their team sections. One smirks, lips pursed, eyes small and sly, offering equal amounts of disrespect and amusement. Hands linked behind my back, I scan the sports carnival crowd, diligent in my duty as a teacher. Streamers and banners — blue, red, green and yellow — float on the breeze, along with the race-caller’s voice crackling over the drone of speakers. Young adults cluster, cross-legged on the ground, faces painted, war cries bellowing over music from their Walkman. A student beats a drum steadily from deep within the crowd, setting the rhythm for their chanting and I am moved by their camaraderie.
So enthusiastic.
So not Robbie in class yesterday.
“S-s-sit in your s-seat, Robbie,” I’d instructed. Tomorrow was the school sports carnival and testosterone always seemed to hang thick in classrooms the day before.
Robbie slumps on the corner of his desk and wedges one foot against the chair in front. Even his body looks lazy as he hunches over his thighs, head hanging, refusing to turn in my direction.
“Sit down in your s-s-seat now or we can take a w-walk to the Principal’s office. Your decision, m-mate. Make it a smart one.”
“Let’s take a walk.” Robbie’s voice is low, gravelly. He shrugs and gazes at the door, his eyes vacant.
“You really wanna do that, m-m-mate? I only w-w-warn once.” I raise my finger to drive home the warning.
Nathan, a stellar all-rounder, offers me a knowing glance, the kind that says I’ve got your back.
“I only wa-wa-warn once.” Robbie’s whining voice mimics my command from beneath a veil of greasy, matted hair and he raises the same warning finger.
“That’s it. Let’s go. B-b-bring your bag. No carnival for you tomorrow.”
The start-gun fires. I readjust my stance and with one hand shelter my eyes from the midday sun to observe the student’s limbs; taut, but agile legs pump as they race over the grass, the beating sound of feet on earth reminding me of horses at the track. They’re strong, virile boys, and a sense of satisfaction settles in my gut knowing I’ve done my best to mould them into respectable young men.
I love my job.
Nathan crosses the line first, his smile radiant. He looks at me, nodding and panting, his face flushed.
“Well done.” I call from my position guarding the masses. He winks at me in appreciation before shaking the hands of his competitors, ending with manly thuds on backs.
One fluorescent light flickers in the corridor as I walk Robbie in silence to the Principal’s office. The smell from the boys’ toilets as we pass causes me to screw up my nose, my nostrils stinging. The boy shuffles along the linoleum, clutching the strap of his backpack over one shoulder.
I’d marched ahead of Robbie; now I was stopped, watching him catch up. Hands pressed firmly onto my hips, willing my words to not trip up my tongue, I ask him. “Is there something wrong? Are you unwell?”
“Guess you could say that.” Robbie sniggers, the corners of cracked lips snaring into a devilish smile.
“Your eyes. S-s-show me your eyes.”
Robbie lets his bag drop where he stands and lifts his head as if his muscles are sedated. With an audible slap of palm on forehead, Robbie slides his fringe away, dragging his eyes open in the process, pupils boring into me, unnerving.
It clicks. “You’re stoned? Oh, you’ve done it this time!” I pick up his backpack and drag it, and him, along the corridor. “Instant s-s-suspension, mate.”
The youth lets out a thick, deep chuckle. “So what?” He reefs his elbow from my grip. “You won’t break me, Mr Ta-Ta-Talbot.”
My pulsating heart pushes blood, and now rage, through my veins. I stare hard, concentrating on my words, needing clarity; instead hearing them tinged with sadness. “Robbie, you’re already broken.”
Another announcement over the speakers competes with music. Cheers and recollections of earlier times when I was once bursting with energy and brimming with stamina has me looking forward to the one-hundred-metre sprint. The kids line up, re-adjusting their clothes, shaking out limbs, staring down each other, then the finish line.
They take their mark.
The drumbeat from the crowd imitates the solid thud in my rib cage. Excited, nervous energy forges through my body.
As the race steward aims the start-gun skyward, my periphery catches Robbie’s lanky frame striding over grass, his greasy mane — usually hanging limp — tied back, a shotgun at his side.
A thud of the drum.
A rhythmical chant.
A relentless spike of panic surging my throat.
Robbie stands on the crest of a hill overlooking the crowd — feet wide, expression empty. No one sees him, only my eyes lock on his, willing him — just as I’d done yesterday in the office — to make the right decision.
Principal Vargas and I had stood together, arms folded across our chests to watch Robbie saunter toward the school gates, his middle finger waving a discourteous salute.
“I doubt he’ll be back, John,” Principal Vargas had said.
“I d-d-don’t s’pose he will.” A swift kick of my foot scatters pebbles.
“You alright, John? You sound —”
“I know. This one got to me. I couldn’t help him. He always brought out the w-w-worst in me.” I sigh, shake my head, eyes squeezed tight.
“I wouldn’t go wasting any more time worrying about Robbie. Like I always say, John, concentrate on the good. You’ve done all you can.” Principal Vargus pats my back before walking off and I sound the words out in my mind. Concentrate on the good. You’ve done all you can.
I take one last look at the school gate. Robbie is gone and I can’t stop the sense of failure seeping into my bones. I couldn’t make a difference this time.
A lone figure hangs in the shadows surveying the crowd, selecting a shot, making a decision.
He hitches his gun up, nestling the weapon on his shoulder, squinting his left eye to take aim. He looks competent, casual, as if the target is part of a kangaroo cull.
My heart shudders with force as the steward fires and the students bolt, sprinting along the track. I run towards the pack, my arms flailing in the air. Cheering explodes.
“Stop, Robbie, s-s-stop!” I scream too late. He’s already fired into the field of runners. A bullet penetrates the earth, but no one seems to notice. He shifts his stance; face pinched tighter, more determined. Fires again. I’m still running while Robbie stands perfectly still, firing at the boys as they cross the finish line, all smiles and puffed with accomplishment. A bullet connects with Harry Matthews. He falls to the ground, grabbing his thigh, confusion striking his eyes; then fear as he removes his quivering hand to inspect the flow of bright, red blood.
Robbie smirks, his lips tight with satisfaction, a glint of evil in his eyes.
“No, Robbie! “I yell as the crowd erupts, screams piercing the air, bodies scattering like a
nts after a nest is disturbed.
He raises the gun again, fixes his stare on me, and before my brain can stop my legs, he has fired again. Heat invades my chest, a burst of gouging pain radiating from my lungs. My breath catches on the tightness that grips my upper torso and I fall, my body heavy as it connects with the ground. I scan the field and the horror on the student’s faces is so real; the indecisive look of panic that says, Do I run for my life or help save the life of another?
I want to tell them to go, to run, save themselves; I manage a groan as the aching throb in my chest takes over. My eyes widen as I lift my head in search of Robbie; what I see is a bloodstained white shirt stuck to my skin.
I spot him to the left of a leafy gum tree. Finished with me, he aims into the crowd, hand cradling the gun, level with his determined focus. Again I try to scream and the air snares on my wound. I cough and clench my fists, inviting pressure over pain.
A gunshot rings out. Frightened teenagers shriek, darting around each other. Intent on survival, instincts kick in.
Unable to move, my glare remains fixed on Robbie, until Nathan appears behind the shooter, his body preparing as his eyes calculate the distance. He looks towards me knowingly and I blink — once — slowly, approving his bravery.
Robbie is down, Nathan’s arms wrapped firmly around his legs. They struggle, wrestling for the gun. Other students advance and he is overpowered. Darkness eradicated.
My vision falters as my own personal darkness absorbs the light from my eyes. I can feel myself slipping. Slipping.
I let go.
I’ve done all I can.
The facts:
Run for your Life is loosely inspired by the Orara High School shooting that took place in Coffs Harbour, NSW, on 19 June 1991. I was eleven years old at the time and attended the primary school next door, hearing the shots from my classroom. The shooter, a high school student, shot three people and was tackled to the ground by students before wounding anyone else. He shot my neighbour, a teacher from the high school, in the chest. Rumour has it, he was suspended from school the day before the sports carnival and this was his act of retaliation. The characters in this story are completely fictionalised.
Shannon Garner is an emerging writer based in the Mid North Coast of NSW. She is a mother to two children, a boy and a girl. She has been writing on and off for three years and looks forward to having more time to write once her children are at school. She is currently working on her first novel. She lives for her family; writing, the beach, travelling and the movies.
Impatient
— Samantha Wilson
I wouldn’t wish hospital on my worst enemy.
Well, maybe there’s one or two deserving individuals I’d like to see at the mercy of the healthcare system, but overall, no. Hospital’s a health hazard. Having been stuck in here two weeks now I reckon I know what I’m talking about.
It’s not the boredom, though I can think of many more riveting ways to pass the time than lying here gagging on a nasogastric tube in a room so dreary it makes an accountant’s office look inviting. (Honestly, who knew I had such an aversion to the colour grey?) It’s not the constant cycle of different nurses doing the same things to me — temperature, blood pressure, liquid feeds, antibiotics — with wildly different levels of skill six times a day, or even the fact I almost carked it and will probably never fire on all cylinders again.
It’s the other bloody patients.
My first room-mate was already there when I was admitted. A nurse told me he was ninety-three, recently widowed. I didn’t hear a peep out of him: poor sod just hid under the sheets, eyes clamped shut, willing himself to die. In hindsight, he was okay, except that his sad silence lulled me into a false sense of security. Last I heard, his daughter found a place for him in a nursing home. Half his luck.
No sooner was his bed stripped and remade than the next bloke took his place: a wrinkly Asian man who kept up a loud, indecipherable conversation with his three sons all day long, ruining any chance I had of catching up on the sleep I’ve lost since I first got sick. There was always at least one of them at his bedside, and if their non-stop yacking was any indication, it’d been a long time between family reunions.
If his sons were noisy, old Mr Wong was a wall of sound — semi-deaf, he could only hear himself when he shouted (never mind the rest of the ward).
Now I’m no boy scout myself, and I’m here to get better, not make friends. So after a couple of ear-splitting days, I complained to the matron. Silly cow misconstrued me when I suggested a private room might aid my recovery: next thing I knew, Mr Wong was shunted off to his own room and Pablo Picasso joined me in mine.
With intense black eyes and a bowling-ball head, this fellow was the spitting image of the great painter in his twilight years. But trust me: there was nothing artistic about his habit of listening to the races at full blast on the radio when he knew damn well my family and I were trying to talk. Like it’s not hard enough making yourself heard when you’ve got a tube pushing against your voice box, try doing it when you’re being shouted down by the bloody sixth at Flemington.
A few nights into his stay, Pablo rose before dawn to go to the loo and took a tumble. His head hit the floor with a crack like a splintering glacier, rousing me from a sweet dream about my dear-departed mum’s home-cooked steak-and-kidney pies. The gaggle of nurses who flocked to his aid were so hysterical they could’ve been auditioning for The Young Doctors. A word to the wise: don’t go to hospital if you need rest.
Who knows where they took Pablo after that? I was too bushed to ask — too frazzled to care. But when the next morning rolled around and his bed was still empty, I dared hope for the unthinkable.
So did my family, who wasted no time getting comfy. No more awkward perching on the edge of my bed, or taking turns in the visitor’s chair: they spread out and made themselves at home. They used the empty bed as a sofa and as a picnic table. My granddaughter commandeered the remote control — bed up, bed down, bed up, bed down — like the bed was a fairground ride, before my wife crashed out for an afternoon snooze. Lizzie’s taking my illness badly. In thirty-five years of marriage, we’ve only ever spent a few nights apart ʼtil now, and I suspect she was planning a slumber party.
The arrival of my new room-mate scuppered that idea.
Credit where credit’s due: this bloke was the friendliest and most normal of the lot. Suffering some kind of lung infection that constricted his breathing, he was another refugee from rowdy roomies.
“You’d think some of ʼem were here to make trouble, the way they carry on,” he wheezed. Like me, he’d tried for a private room.
“Mid-level hospital cover’s not worth shit. Next time I’m going top-range.” He winked. “But you seem alright, mate. Name’s Mal by the way.”
“Warren.”
He contemplated me across the room. “Guess you’re too sick to get up to much mischief, eh, Warren?”
Either his friends and family were interstate or they were just too lazy to visit, because Mal was always on the phone. That’s when I discovered he could talk the ear off an elephant. About anything. The cricket, the weather, his kids, the hospital food, someone called Bazza’s birthday drinks. But a few recurring themes soon emerged: how it hurt like buggery to inhale deeply when the nurses checked his breathing, and how he was always “busting for a piss. But when I get to the dunny,” he’d exclaim, “I can’t go!” My initial amusement soon wore thin.
I never wished him dead, though.
It was his third night, around 3 a.m. His agonised screams blasted me awake, piercing my brain, freezing my blood. Nurses shouting, defibrillator zapping. And all the time, those godforsaken screams. They tried to save him for fifteen, twenty minutes, fighting the inevitable like heroic soldiers outnumbered by enemy troops, until there was only a weird, echoing silence. Needless to say, I didn’t get back to sleep.
Lizzie and the girls freaked out when I told them, but I played it down. Joked about b
eing a jinx for anyone who shared a room with me. But I was scared, no denying it. Hearing somebody die, in the darkest depths of the night, so close by, when you’re sick as me … well, let’s say it doesn’t make you feel any better.
With unexpected sensitivity, or maybe just by fluke, the nurses didn’t bring in another patient until late the following evening. By then I was so whacked I barely realised he was there. I vaguely recall hearing him grumble about wanting to go home, but nothing more … until some time before dawn, when it kicked off all over again, the usual nocturnal commotion. Fuming, I wrapped my pillow around my head to block out the noise.
But this lug-head would not be silenced. Unlike the others, whose misadventures hadn’t been their fault, this guy was fixing for a barney, swearing bluer than an outback miner and getting steadily louder as a nurse tried to hush him. Scuffling sounds behind the dividing curtain told me he was up and about; when his bedpan came clattering into my side of the room, I knew he wouldn’t be lying down any time soon.
Pissed off doesn’t even begin to describe it. One night’s uninterrupted slumber, that’s all I was asking for. One measly night. But no, this drongo had a tantrum to throw, and it couldn’t wait. If I wasn’t so incapacitated, I’d’ve been in there shutting him up myself.
But when I heard the thud of fist against flesh, followed by shocked cries from the nurses, I got worried. The yelling, banging, grunting and thumping that ensued didn’t exactly ease my troubled mind, either. What the blazes was going on? Was this a hospital room or a cage fight?
Seemed like centuries before they managed to get the bastard under control. The orderly who checked on me afterwards said it took eight of them to overpower and sedate him. “Would’ve been easier to use a dart gun like they do with lions,” he mused. “Four nurses he punched, two of them women!” He rubbed his forearm ruefully. “Not to mention all the bites and scratches. Hope I don’t get rabies.” If he was joking, I wasn’t laughing.