by Michael Sala
From their bedroom.
Roy gave a soft cough. Her heart began to beat more heavily. What would happen if she told her husband to go outside with the cigarette? Where would they go from there? Nowhere good. She wondered if Freya were asleep yet. She thought back to all the fights she’d ever had with Roy, the serious ones, how she’d always told herself that her children were asleep. She couldn’t bear to imagine it any other way. What a way to live, though, telling yourself these sorts of things.
‘Mum?’ Daniel said.
It was a warm night, one of those early harbingers of the approaching summer. She sighed and wedged open the door onto the balcony just a little to let in the fresh sea air. An oceanic moan filled the room.
‘Everything’s okay,’ she said, and it occurred to her that she was trying to convince herself as much as Daniel. She sat beside him, rested her hand on his head. ‘Was it a bad dream?’
‘I can’t remember,’ he said. ‘Can you wait with me?’
Maryanne thought of Roy waiting there in their bed, smoking his cigarette. She stroked Daniel’s head as if she were stroking her own heart, trying to ease it back into a steadier rhythm. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘Of course I’ll wait.’
20
Josh shifted beside her. They were sitting together on the edge of her desk, which they’d pushed up against the open window, their legs dangling in the air, all that space underneath their feet. They’d just finished putting up half a dozen posters on the freshly painted walls of her room. They sat very close, so that she could feel his warmth. He had been looking at her quietly, from the corner of his eye, but pretending not to, which only made it more obvious. She’d liked that, the feeling of his attention on her, but it unsettled her too, to be near him, like she was waiting for him to act. Why wasn’t he? She stole a glance at his pale, freckled face. Josh cleared his throat and ran his tongue across his braces with his mouth closed.
‘I should probably do some stuff,’ she murmured.
He nodded, pulled his legs back into the room and clambered off the desk.
They walked together down to the front door. ‘Thanks for the posters,’ she said.
Josh smiled at her as he stepped outside. ‘No problem.’
She closed the door behind him and turned back down the hallway.
‘Freya.’ Mum was sitting at the table in the dining room. ‘Is he gone?’
Freya stood at the foot of the stairs, with her hand on the bannister. ‘Yeah.’
‘He’s really such a nice boy. Gentle and kind. Just what a girl needs.’
‘He’s a friend,’ Freya said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Of course.’
‘What?’
Mum shrugged. ‘Nothing. Sometimes I think you’re a bit too much like me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Freya said, surprised at the sudden hardness, the anger in her own voice, the eagerness to provoke the same from Mum. ‘I’m probably less like you than you think.’
Mum didn’t bite back. ‘Come, sit with me for a while.’
Freya hesitated. Mum looked so small and sad and fragile, like a piece of wire covered in cloth, bent in upon itself. Lonely, maybe, or lost, like she needed someone to talk to.
‘No,’ Freya answered. ‘I have things to do.’
With that, she went back upstairs and into her room. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and took the bong from under her bed. Returning to her desk, she packed a cone and sparked the lighter into reassuring life. She sucked the cone down in one go, held the smoke deep in her lungs and then blew it out the window. She sank onto her bed and fumbled with her headphones as the rush of the pot filled her head. Before she could get them on, the phone rang. Mum came up and knocked, called her name.
‘Why do you lock it?’ she said when Freya opened the door.
Freya stared at her blankly.
‘The phone’s for you,’ Mum said.
Freya went down and picked it up. ‘Hello?’
It was Josh. ‘You want to go to the beach?’
‘Weren’t you just over?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘I got home and realised I didn’t want to be here.’
She saw Mum’s shadow across the doorway to the kitchen.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of being here too.’
The beach was a mistake. It was much brighter in the sunlight than she’d expected. There was too much of everything—glare, searing wind, heat radiating from the sand, the incessant clamour of the ocean echoing against the concrete surfaces between the beach and the road.
As they made their way along the esplanade and down towards the Bogey Hole, they passed a knot of bare-chested boys sprawled over benches under the shadow of the cliff at the southern end of the beach.
One wolf-whistled as they went by. ‘Come on, girls, slow down,’ another yelled, and all of them started laughing.
Josh looked towards them over his shoulder.
One of the boys stood up. ‘What?’
It was the boy from school, the one she hardly knew who’d yelled at her once from a car and pretty much ignored her ever since. Beau. She’d since seen him beat up two different boys at school, both smaller than him. He had left the others and was walking towards them. Freya felt a sudden tingling awareness of the way this part of the shoreline was separate from the main stretch, tucked away behind a saltbush-covered outcrop.
‘Keep walking,’ she said to Josh.
But Josh slowed down and stopped. Beau was broad, with a good layer of fat over his muscle, his cheeks gravelly with acne. He stood half a head taller than Josh. As he approached, the boys behind him began laughing again, like they were listening to a joke they’d heard before.
His eyes were bloodshot. He was probably stoned or drunk or both. He looked at Josh. ‘What’d you say to me, cunt?’
Josh looked back at him, his slim body tense. ‘I didn’t say anything. Maybe you’ve got something in your ear.’
‘Say it again.’
‘Say what? Just tell me what I said, and I’ll be happy to tell you again.’
‘Faggot.’ The boy shoved Josh. He did it without effort, but Josh flew back a few steps.
‘Leave him alone,’ Freya said.
Beau drew back his lips. ‘What, is he like the queer you hang out with because you don’t want a boyfriend? You going to protect him now, are you?’
Josh jumped at him then. He swung a wild punch that glanced across Beau’s chin, then swung another. There was a flash of surprise on Beau’s face, and a stunned hush came over the boys behind him, then he dropped Josh to the ground with a single punch. Beau was about kick Josh in the ribs and Freya was already stepping forward, when a voice rang out behind him.
‘Don’t, mate. You won.’
From amid the boys sprawled over the benches, a man got to his feet. He was lean and corded with muscle. No shirt, bare feet, tanned skin, dark hair on his chest. A beer bottle dangled from one hand as he walked towards them.
‘Just go and mellow out, mate,’ he said.
Beau stood his ground. ‘He started it.’
‘Mate,’ the man said again. His lips compressed into something near a smile, like he was speaking to a stupid child. ‘Listen to me. Just walk away.’ He wasn’t that old after all, Freya decided. It was more his manner. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Beau spat on the ground, and went back to the group. The man turned towards Freya and Josh, who was bent over on one knee on the ground, hands cupped over his face, blood spurting through his fingers.
The man crouched in front of him. ‘Give me a look. Ah, that’ll be fine. You want some of this?’ He offered the beer. Josh shook his head. With a shrug, the man rose to his feet. His loosely tied board shorts dipped a little under a swirl of black hair that crept across a flat, muscular belly towards his navel.
‘Come on, Tim,’ one of the boys shouted. ‘Go on and poke her, why don’t you!’
‘Don’t be so fucking rude,’ h
e called back towards them. ‘Where’s your fucking manners?’ He turned back to face Freya. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Freya.’
‘Freya,’ he said, as if he were testing the word on his tongue. ‘I like it.’
He lifted his glasses, his bright blue eyes sweeping across her in a way that startled her. ‘Seen you around, actually.’ His face broadened into a grin. ‘That dickhead over there, Beau, he’s my little brother. If they hassle you—or he does—let me know. I’ll kick his arse for you.’
‘Okay.’ Josh was on his feet, wiping blood off his arms. ‘I’ll do that. Have you got like a business card or something?’
Tim glanced at him, his face expressionless, then he looked back at Freya and gave a quick wink before lowering his glasses.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he said.
‘Fucking idiot,’ Josh muttered under his breath as they watched him walk off.
‘Don’t be dumb,’ she said.
They began walking back the way they’d come.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
He wiped his nose, his wrist bright with blood, and didn’t answer. He was crying, she realised, his shoulders heaving with each breath. When they got back to the main beach she bought some tissues from the kiosk there and helped dab his face clean.
‘You should have kept walking,’ she told him.
He gave a snort and a bubble of blood popped out of his nose. ‘Maybe if they were just talking about me. But they weren’t.’
‘You’re lucky he stepped in when he did.’
‘Tim?’ Josh spat more blood onto the ground. ‘Lucky he stepped in to save me from his deadshit brother? Why do you think Beau even had a go at me? Who do you think told him to? Are you that blind?’
Freya felt herself flush. ‘Well, I’m not the one who got punched in the face.’
Josh shook his head. ‘You know how many people Tim’s beaten the shit out of? He dropped out of school in year 11. Now he just hangs around at the beach doing whatever the fuck he does. Selling drugs to people stupid enough not to realise he’s ripping them off. Just because he stopped his brother kicking the shit out of me, don’t think he’s a nice guy.’
‘Josh.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you actually okay?’
He nodded, lips tight against his teeth. ‘I saw how he was looking at you,’ he said.
‘I didn’t notice anything,’ she said. The lie came easily enough. It was something she’d heard Mum tell Dad more than once.
‘Listen,’ he said, but instead of going on, he leaned forward to kiss her.
Freya turned away, looked out to sea. ‘You have to be careful. You’re the best friend I have in this place.’
Something slackened in him. ‘You’re right—I was an idiot.’
‘I didn’t say that. You weren’t.’
‘Did I make a dick of myself?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I feel like I did. I should have stayed on my feet.’
‘What are you, like a professional boxer now?’
‘I’ve seen your old man. He looks tough as nails.’
‘You wouldn’t want to be like him. Trust me.’
Josh touched his nose and winced. ‘Anyway, he’s bad news, Tim. You don’t want to know him. You just don’t.’
On their way back home, a car slowed as it passed them. Beau was leaning out of the window with his usual empty expression, but he didn’t say anything. She caught a glimpse of the driver, his brother, staring straight ahead, or perhaps his eyes briefly caught hers in the rear-view mirror—she wasn’t sure.
‘I’m pathetic,’ Josh said suddenly.
‘You’re—’ Freya began, but he cut her off.
‘Don’t try to make me feel better.’ He studied his feet in silence. Then he shook his head and said under his breath, ‘You have no idea what it’s like to deal with fuckers like that every day.’
‘How would you know’ she said sharply. ‘How would you know what I have to deal with?’
He bared his teeth, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. ‘You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to really have a clue what’s going on.’
She crossed her arms. ‘As if you know anything about me!’
Something nasty twisted through his face. ‘Well, don’t I? Tell me I’m wrong! You saw how he was looking at you. I bet you enjoyed it. You just don’t want to admit it.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said. ‘You just think you do. You’re the same as everyone else!’
She turned to go, but he grabbed her wrist.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s just hang out.’
She relented. They went back to Josh’s basement, where they smoked some pot and slouched in his chairs listening to Neil Young’s Harvest. Josh was in his own world, preoccupied. He picked up his guitar, began playing along to the start of ‘Heart of Gold’. The space between them felt like a chasm.
‘I have to go,’ she told him.
He nodded.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he said.
Later that night, in bed, she could hear Mum and Dad talking through the floor below her. There was a shape to their conversation—the long pauses, the shifts in tone—that made her think they were arguing, but she wasn’t sure. It was late, too late to be awake waiting to fall asleep. The drone of cicadas had long since died away. She couldn’t hear the sea. There was only the insomniac harbour and the murmur of traffic. She felt bad for Josh, wished they’d never fought, wished they’d never gone to the beach. She hadn’t been angry with him. He hadn’t been angry with her. Or at least that hadn’t been the whole of it. She understood that, but she didn’t know how to get past it. Maybe it hadn’t even been anger.
Tim’s flat, gleaming belly sprang into her mind, the dark wisps of hair, his loosely tied shorts. The confident way he’d stood with his legs planted solid into the ground, his shoulders, which reminded her of Dad’s. She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. What had Patrick said? Something about driving a car at night, and seeing only what was in front of you? She felt like that all right, but she knew enough about what was in the darkness, out of sight.
Dad was going to lose it soon. She knew this and she could tell that Mum knew it too. Everyone knew, and no one could do anything about it. Wasn’t that what life was—knowing things and not admitting it until it was too late, looking the other way? Everyone was waiting. What next? Like it was all up to Dad. When she grew up, when she got clear of all of this, she would never let herself live like that again. It wasn’t anger she felt at Josh, it was more like—what? Frustration? She wanted him to be surer of himself, not so full of doubt. She wanted to tell him that, but she knew she never would.
The town hall belltower sent its notes out into the darkness. The sound hung in the air for a long time, as if there were no room for it to fall away, as if the world were crowded already with sound that no one could hear anymore. She was in a car, and the darkness was around her and ahead, and she wanted to push her foot down, all the way down. Anything was better than waiting.
21
Towards the end of October the heat of the approaching summer fell on the city and clung to everything, distorting the black, broad streets, filling the mornings with promises as vague as they were intense, full of eucalyptus and disintegrating blossoms and distant burning. From the hills and higher places and sudden steep roads around the inner city, the murky brown palls of bushfire smoke could be seen unravelling across the horizon. At school, sunlight blazed against the windows and pooled in rooms and corridors, along with deodorant and perfume and body odour as students passed from one class to the next.
‘Hormones,’ Mrs O’Neill said in the swelter of the classroom. ‘You girls are all wading through a soup of hormones. Don’t take any risks. Don’t trust your instincts, except when they tell you what I tell you. If that voice in your head doesn’t sound like me, it’s not worth listening to. And you boys, God help you. Don’t listen
to anything that comes into your head. Not a thing, unless it’s stop, stop, stop. You boys need stop signs tattooed on your foreheads. Not that you’d ever look at yourselves long enough to notice.’ She gave a dismissive flick of her hand. ‘Then again, there are always too many adolescent males in the species—stupidity is nature’s way of weeding you out. The only thing I can say is try, just try, to be one of the clever ones.’
‘Should we be taking notes, miss?’
‘When’s the last time you ever took notes, Ben? I’m just talking.’
She switched back to talking about Julius Caesar—again—about the scene in which he’d just been killed. The conspirators were standing around covered in blood. Cassius was telling them not to wash, because the blood was nothing to be ashamed of—it would show the world they were heroes.
‘This,’ Ally said softly, ‘is what it’d be like if guys had periods.’
‘I can just see them all,’ Freya whispered back, ‘waving their bloody tampons in the air, waiting to be told how great they were.’
Sitting where he usually sat, at the back of the room, Josh caught her eye, hands behind his head, leaning back on his chair, collar up, a button over his belly undone. His hair was wild, like he’d just rolled out of bed. She smiled at him and looked away. She pushed her knees together, thought of him on the ground, clutching his mouth, blood spilling through his fingers, his face a flushed collision of shame and fear.
Only Mr Hind, with his steady, implacable manner, seemed immune to the general air of exhaustion that hung over the school. In maths, a double godforsaken period of it before lunch, he wrote on the blackboard, and as he wrote he spoke—about numbers and symbols, how they formed a language everyone could agree on, beautiful in its simplicity, a language that embraced everything.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I have your practice exams here, and a list of people I want to see after class.’
Freya was on the list. After the bell had rung for lunch, there were a few of them still sitting there, legs flung out beneath their desks. He went to them one by one and took them through their work, setting them problems they had to get right before they could leave. The noise of lunchtime came at them from outside. Mr Hind came to Freya’s desk last.