by Darren Groth
I take two deep breaths. ‘This isn’t the same. I just want to do my hours somewhere else. In a place that’s … not a privilege.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Can I change?’
‘Doubt it. We call it the Voluntold Program for a reason – you do your fifty hours where they say you will.’
‘Shit.’
‘Maybe Ms Mac can help. Go see her after this.’
‘Rowan Hyde. Disturbing the peace, as usual.’ Mr Pearce rubs his hands together. His voice suggests he’s caught a fly. ‘A question for you, young man: a population, or groups of populations, whose members can interbreed and produce fertile offspring … What’s the biological term?’
Rowan twists his mouth. ‘Can you repeat that, sir? My Canadian friend here may not have understood.’
I shrink in my seat.
Mr Pearce rolls his eyes and flicks his bony arms. ‘Population or groups of populations, members can interbreed, fertile offspring produced. What’s it called?’
Rowan slaps his desk. ‘Splendour in the Grass, sir.’
The room erupts. Mr Pearce sighs and waits it out – the eye wipes, the fist bumps, the simulated sex acts. He grasps a red marker in his twig fingers and begins stalking the whiteboard.
Rowan waits for his name to get written up, then leans over. ‘Brother, if you want to avoid Fair Go, you’re gonna need a pretty good excuse.’
‘You need a pretty good excuse,’ says Ms MacGillivray, typing at the speed of light, eyes fixed on the monitor. She has two long scratches on her neck. They look like a fish gills tattoo I saw on Reddit. ‘Have you got a pretty good excuse, Munro?’
You do – you’re afraid of this Fair Go place.
Tell her.
‘I just thought students might, you know, have a choice. Seeing as it’s a volunteer program.’
Ms Mac stops typing and gives me a sappy look. ‘Oh, that’s a lovely thought. But I guess you haven’t heard the students calling it the Voluntold Program.’ She stifles a laugh. ‘I wish we could call it that, honestly.’
‘So, I’m stuck.’
‘No, you’re in prime position.’ Ms Mac gets out of her seat and sits on the edge of her desk, hands in her lap. ‘You’re away from home, on your own. Trying to fit in. And you’ve had a rough go this week, no risk. Yes, I heard about the fire drill on Tuesday. And the spat on the basketball court at recess.’ She holds up a hand. ‘That’s a conversation for another time. What I want to say right now is, give this a chance, Munro. You told me in our first meeting that you want to be better. Fair Go is tailor-made for that. I hand-picked it just for you. Spend some time out there and you will be better. I guarantee it.’
I exit the guidance officer’s digs, wondering what a Bail ’Er Swift guarantee is worth.
School week is done, eh? You made it.
No thanks to you.
So, where is this train headed? Sea World? Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary?
No.
Are we going to the beach?
I – not ‘we’. I am going into the city to a place called Liber8 with my new friends.
What’s Liber8?
It’s a bunch of rooms you have to escape from. They have clues and stuff. You race against the clock.
I think that’s stupid.
What you think doesn’t matter.
Yes, it does. You brought me here to Australia. You wanted to ‘find a place for me to go’. So, I want to go to the beach.
You will go to the fucking beach when I say so. Okay? I’ve got six months here, you know.
Not if you keep losing it.
‘Still mulling over that arsehole?’
I quit leaning against the handhold by the doors and put my weight on both feet. ‘I’m thinking about Fair Go, actually.’
‘Really?’ Rowan raises his voice over the noise of the train. ‘Stuff it, Mun. That’s in the future – this is now. Friday. You’re going into town with your new mates. We’ll go to the Snag Stand or Little Saigon afterwards. Hungry Jack’s in the mall, if we’re really desperate. You look sharp, by the way.’
Jeans, retro Grizzlies cap, old sneakers – with the exception of my Robbie Vergara tee, hardly sharp. I did take the elastic band out of my hair, so now I look sixteen instead of fourteen.
‘You’re in Australia!’ continues Rowan. ‘Here for a good time, not a long time, so that’s what we’re gunna do.’ He digs into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a small plastic bottle. ‘I reckon this might help you loosen up.’
‘Coke?’
Rowan looks around. ‘Bundy and Coke.’
‘Bundy?’
‘Bundaberg rum. Have some.’
In the summer after the funeral, I got wasted twice on ‘borrowed’ Pabst Blue Ribbon, figuring I’d test out that whole drink-to-forget thing. Although it tasted like ass, the beer numbed the ache for a few hours. And it did sort of muffle the Coyote – it sounded like it was talking through a tin can. But I didn’t forget, not for a minute. Not when I took a piss in my goalie mask or when I cried on Louis’s shoulder or when I staggered into our front yard and threw up on the garden hose.
‘Think I’ll pass.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
Rowan shrugs and takes a swig before stashing the bottle back in his jacket.
The train slows to a stop. The stretch of Brisbane River we’re perched over is flat, not a ripple in sight. It looks more like earth than water.
Rowan taps me on the shoulder. ‘This bridge – people live in it.’ He points towards the large concrete support to the left of our car. A line of windows runs up the centre of the pylon. A small balcony at the top has a sad-looking plant and a line of laundry. ‘In 2011, pretty much everybody east of here went under.’
Rowan pulls up a short YouTube video called Brisbane Flood – Walter Taylor Bridge. It shows the rushing river, brown and swollen and sweeping beneath the deck. Debris enters the shot: a pontoon dragging branches, a small white boat still attached to its buoy. I watch it twice, then hand the phone back.
‘Pays to live up high, hey?’ he says. ‘No rescue required.’
A flush appears in Rowan’s cheeks and ears. I don’t know if it’s the Bundy and Coke or the YouTube video, but I have an inkling he’s about to fill in a few blanks about his dad’s heroic deed. Then the train lurches forward, pitching us both out of the moment. Rowan shudders and settles back into Friday-night anticipation.
‘Caro is excited. You were all she could talk about in Physics this afternoon. She even got roused on by Ms DiMambro for being too chatty. That never happens with Caro.’
‘Glad I’m getting other people in trouble and not just myself.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t think she’ll mind too much if there’s, ahem, a bit of trouble tonight.’ He does air quotes around the word ‘trouble’.
‘Really? You went there?’
‘Oh, I went there. What’s the matter? Worried you won’t get any alone time?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about.’
Rowan watches me fan the fingers of my right hand, then massage the palm. Before he can repeat his ‘good time, not a long time’ spiel, I point to his jacket.
‘Think I might try some of that Bundy and Coke after all.’
Rowan and I meet the others outside Liber8. Digger is pumped.
‘Been looking forward to this for a loooong time!’ he says.
‘Didn’t you do this two weekends ago?’ asks Renee.
‘Yeah, with my cousin.’
‘And last weekend?’
‘Yeah, with my mum.’
‘So when you say you’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, you actually mean seven days.’
‘It was hard, I’m not gonna lie.’
‘Just make sure you don’t give anything away,’ warns Maeve.
‘We’ll tell Jessica Mauboy if you do,’ adds Rowan. ‘I doubt she’ll want to come to a semi-formal with a walk
ing spoiler alert.’
Digger swears under threat of electroshock therapy that he hasn’t done the asylum escape.
We enter the foyer – it’s a cross between a dentist’s office and a club – and Caro pulls me aside. Released from the Sussex school uniform, she is formidable. Mascara, eyeliner, deep purple lipstick, dark grey bangles. Hair like a black portrait frame. A bright yellow dress contrasts the shadows. She’s not breathtaking – she’s breath-giving. She’s mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
‘Are you okay, Munro?’ she asks, leaning in to combat the shouting monitor on the foyer wall. ‘I keep thinking about how woozy you were on Monday.’
The hand she has on my sleeve is burning a hole in my tee. ‘I’m good. One of those things. Won’t happen again.’
‘I brought a washcloth in my bag, just in case.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Caro.’
She notices goosebumps on my arm and smiles. ‘Now you’re cold! Mind you, so am I. The aircon in here is cranked.’
A listless guy with stretched earlobes appears from a back room and gives us blindfolds. Renee asks if she can have a whip as well. Rowan makes a crack about Fifty Shades of Renee.
I put on my blindfold. Immediately, my head feels heavy, as if the Grizz cap I’m wearing has been replaced by a football helmet. Lobe Guy tells us to line up single file and put our hands on the shoulders of the person in front. I clamp my left hand onto Renee. Caro holds on to me, giving small squeezes.
Right there and then I think, This is good. This can all work out fine.
Evie would be scared if she was here.
She hated the dark. You know that.
And now she’s in a box, buried in the ground.
When Lobe Guy tells us to take off the blindfolds, Caro, Rowan and I are in a cell with grey bars and white padded walls. Splotches of ‘blood’ dot the floor under our feet. HELP ME has been scratched into one of the padded panels to our right. In the corridor outside the cell there are three objects: a broom handle, a single workboot and a mounted picture frame with columns of weird symbols and numbers. A black combination lock secures the door. The air smells like bleach and sweat. I hear Maeve, Renee and Digger laughing and whooping next door, the sounds leaking through a gap between the wall and the ceiling. From what I can make out, they’re in a similar cell, same lock. Rowan surveys the space – barely big enough to fit three people – then pulls out the Bundy and Coke for a swig. He hands it over and I do the same. When I offer it to Caro, Rowan intercepts.
‘Not a good idea,’ he says, reclaiming the bottle.
‘I don’t drink,’ says Caro. She gives me a thin smile and twists one of the bangles on her wrist.
‘Oh, I’m … I’m sorry, Caro. I don’t like to drink either … normally. I mean, I drank a couple of times, over the summer, but it didn’t do anything for me. So … yeah.’
Lobe Guy comes to my rescue, asking for quiet so he can give us the background to our escape scenario. Standing in the corridor, where we can all see him through the bars, he pulls a manky laminated card from his pocket and reads aloud in the voice of the teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. We are trapped in a ‘home for wayward girls’ in 1920s Brisbane. One of our friends, Vera, has recently died after a prank gone wrong; she was in the attic, rope around her neck, faking suicide in the hope of guilting the headmistress out of her stern rules and cruel punishments. When the headmistress discovered Vera, she didn’t notice the hidden chair she was standing on and lunged for her. The chair was knocked out from under Vera’s feet, hanging her for real. Inconsolable over what she’d done, the headmistress flung herself out of the attic window, splattering on the ground far below. Now, we are locked up, accused of killing the woman as payback for Vera’s death. We have one hour to escape the home, prove our innocence, avoid lethal injection and elude a vengeful ghost. Lobe Guy puts the card back in his pocket and stifles a yawn. If we need a clue to help us along, he concludes, press the button on the remote provided.
Rowan claps his hands as Lobe Guy locks the doors and departs. The digital clock high up on the dividing wall begins to count down. ‘Let’s GTFO.’
These peeps are fun. A bit like your friends back at DSS, eh? I mean, the friends you used to have back at DSS. They didn’t hang out with you much the summer after Evie died, or when school started again. Apart from Louis. But even then there were times he blew you off, too.
I can’t blame them, Munro. Who wants to be around someone sad and angry all the time?
That’s not fun.
We’re out of the cells and on to Stage 2.
I’m not really sure how that happened.
I remember Lobe Guy came and gave us a clue because we hadn’t done squat in the first half-hour. After he left, Rowan and Caro figured out something that made Renee angry. She groaned and said, ‘Why the fuck didn’t you notice that before? We’re in this together!’ It had to do with the stray boot on the floor, out of reach. And the broom – that was important. I’m not sure why. I wasn’t paying attention.
I tried, early on. I tried hard to think about the clues, what they might mean. I read out the number sequences on the wall so Rowan could work the lock. I listened to the others, speaking through the gap above our cells. I even suggested there might be something in the boot at one point. But as the number on the clock got smaller, and the noise of the gang increased, thinking became too much of an effort. I massaged my temples. I bit my nails. My groin felt like water. I sat out. Literally. I sat on the cell bench, reminding myself that this was supposed to be fun, that I was here for a good time. I shouldn’t have had that Bundy and Coke.
I’m standing now, in the second room, the others bouncing around me like ping-pong balls. The scene is grim. There’s a handprint on the wall and more blood on the floor. A nasty-looking machine with wires and electrodes and switches with large handles is off to one side. A suicide note is taped to a large mirror beside the locked door; it’s signed ‘Vera’. The ceiling lights are in metal cages. They flicker every now and then, as if spelling out a warning. In my hand is a disc, smaller than a puck, with lines that look like soundwaves on one side. The digital clock in the corner shows we’ve got just over twelve minutes left.
My legs are turning to jelly. There aren’t any benches or chairs in this ugly room. I wish I was back in the padded cell.
At home, everyone knew why you were angry and sad. Apart from Rowan, these guys have no clue. They figure it’s tough for a new kid coming from the other side of the world. But is it so tough that you’re freaked out by a girl lying on the grass? Or you’re in the face of some goof on the basketball court? Or you’re afraid of volunteering with disabled people?
And now you’re standing around like you’re waiting for a bus while they work their butts off to get you out of this place?
Their voices are bleeding into each other, but I can still make out some of the talk.
‘We need to get this open!’
‘We tried that already!’
‘It’s gonna be something really simple!’
‘Calm down. Let’s think it through.’
‘Look at the time!’
I’d like Caro to stand behind me again, to put her hands on my shoulders. That would feel good. That would help.
I lean against the wall. The bricks are cool on my cheek.
Six minutes left.
Not a long time. But enough for a good time?
Let’s have some fun, Munro.
Smoke is gathering around my feet. The walls creak and groan. Someone screams. I flinch, look around.
Didn’t they hear that?
No, only you can hear it.
And see it.
You have four minutes.
There’s a body on the floor. On its side. Tucked in next to the machine with the wires and the electrodes.
It’s the suicide girl from the story – Vera. She’ll have a clue for me. She’ll get me out of here.
It’s Vera.
&n
bsp; I know it’s Vera.
You know it’s not Vera.
You have three minutes.
She’s not dead.
She’s dying.
She needs to be turned over, put flat on her back. She needs compressions.
I look at the others, hoping they can help. They’re busy. They’ve found something. A box. The box. Opening it gets you out of here.
Where’s the key?
Two minutes left! Time is running out!
It’s up to you!
Every second counts!
I kneel down beside the body. Before I can turn her over, I need to get rid of this disc in my hand.
On the other side of the room, Renee shouts, ‘Munro! He’s got the key!’
Under a minute!
Get to work, Munro!
My hand.
It’s in agony, but I can’t open it. It’s locked.
‘Munro! You’ve got the key! Give it to me, mate! Before it’s too late!’
Twenty seconds!
SAVE ME!
‘MUNRO, GIVE ME THE KEY!’
TEN SECONDS!
SAVE ME, MUNRO!
‘LET GO OF IT, MUNRO!’
SAVE ME!
‘LET GO!’
‘JUST LEAVE ME … THE FUCK … ALONE!’
A loud buzzer sounds. The lights turn up to full brightness.
I blink. Vera is gone. My right hand slowly opens and spreads. The disc falls to the floor. There’s an imprint of its soundwaves in my palm. I press it against my aching chest, then stand, surveying the scene. Renee is a few feet away, face pale, breathing hard, fingers probing the point of her shoulder. Hair is thrown across her face, as if a gust of wind has caught her unawares. Maeve stands to the left of Renee, biting her lip. Digger stands to the right, covering his mouth. The two of them look like deer in headlights. Rowan, arms folded, is holding the box we failed to unlock and leaning against the door we failed to open.