by Michael Hyde
Mai looked softly at Miss Turner and then at Max. Chris folded and unfolded his tipping sheet. Tick, tick, tick. Max could have looked anywhere but he didn’t. The rhythmic roll and flick of the ruler in his hand continued.
‘How’d he do it, Miss?’ Guy fashioned his face into something approximating sincerity. The students swivelled, looking at Max and then a soft voice dropped into the pit of silence.
‘I think it’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard’, Mai said.
‘Yes it is, Mai.’ There was a long silence. Miss Turner felt herself becoming anxious.
‘To tell you the truth, Miss, it’s so sad I don’t even feel like being here. I mean, what’s the point?’ Mai’s voice was barely audible. Janet Turner could hardly stop herself from agreeing.
‘Would you like some time to yourself, Mai? Go and have a walk outside?’
‘How come she gets to go?’ Kirsty blurted out. ‘Geez, Miss – I mean, we’re all sad but you gotta keep going. You can’t just fall in a heap.’ Her words fell with a thud. ‘Well you do!’ She looked around at her classmates for support but was met by stony silence. Feeling under pressure, Kirsty clutched at straws. ‘In any case, he shouldn’t have done it. You know. He did it to himself. It’s a sin to take your own life.’
‘Some people think so’, Miss Turner said.
‘I think that’s crap’, said Max.
‘Whoa, the ghost who walks’, laughed Guy. ‘For a minute there, Max, I thought you had old Lou’s disease.’ He mimicked his mouth being zippered up.
The class looked at Guy and then at Max. Max didn’t want to snot the idiot but he sure felt like it. He wanted to go over and spread Guy’s nose across his face. The bastard had no respect for anything.
Max tapped his ruler on the desk in front of him. ‘Doesn’t matter how he did it. He did it. That’s all. ‘
‘So why’d he do it?’ Guy didn’t know when to stop.
Janet Turner had been lost in her own sea of sadness but Guy’s question dragged her back into being a teacher. ‘That doesn’t concern you, Guy. I think it would be a good idea if we went on with our work. Why don’t you continue with the revision I set you last week.’
Guy’s face reddened. Max thought that at that minute he bore a striking resemblance to Fatman.
‘I was just discussing it Miss, like you said.’
‘Yes... well’, said Miss Turner. Turning to her desk she wondered whether the Deputy Principal’s warning hadn’t been right after all.
8
MAX AMBLED HIS WAY out of school at the end of the day, scuffing his runners on the loose gravel of the play-ground. Most of the students had left. He had waited behind in the toilets to avoid the stares and whispers.
He walked in a daze towards the small gate at the end of the school. Cinnamon leaves were scattered over the path and piled in the gutters. He felt a presence, heard a soft tread just behind, like a cat trailing him.
It was Mai. As she drew level, she glanced at him, murmured something, then walked quickly past. Max watched her quicken her step, watched her black black hair falling down her shoulders.
‘Mai!’ he called.
She slowed and turned, lowering her head.
‘Yes?’
Max wondered what it was he wanted to say. ‘That was good today. What you said.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, – it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘He was young, we’re all young... Only a little while ago he was here at this school, walking along this path... it’s the saddest thing.’
Max stood forlornly, his bag slung over his shoulder. He smelt a stale afternoon wind come up off the river. Nearby a crow flapped its wings and settled on the remains of a discarded lunch.
‘Waste not, want not’, Mai said, looking at the crow.
Max watched the bird peck and tear at its meal.
Silence.
‘I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ Mai searched for the right words, helpful words, any words would do. But none came. She turned and continued her way home.
There was a rush of tyres behind Max. A hand clipped him over the back of his head as a bike rushed by.
‘Getting on with the slopes now, are ya, Max?’
Guy laughed and sped on, his bulky frame leaning this way and that, swerving from kerb to kerb. Max stood and watched him go. He looked at Mai as she dawdled her way towards Wellington Street. The crow, finished with his dinner, flew off. Leaving Max standing there alone – feeling lost and stupid.
9
THE CRACKED MELODY OF A WATTLEBIRD woke Max up. It never seemed possible to see Nick any other time than in the early morning. A few times he’d seen Nick in the late afternoon but that was rare. ‘It was worth it, though’, thought Max. ‘Most times, anyhow.’
He placed his kayak in the water and pushed out from the bank, almost too keen to get going. The plovers shot past. ‘Set your clock by those birds!’ he mused. As Max settled into the swing of paddling, the kayak felt like it was skating on cream. For some reason he thought of Woody.
‘Max. Where do y’go when you go paddling? Why don’t you take me with you one time? Please.’
‘Where would you sit, Woody?’
‘We could take Dad’s old canoe. C’mon Max. Just once. I promise I won’t say all that stuff I say.’
‘What stuff?’
‘You know. That stuff you hate!’
‘I should take him’, thought Max. ‘Maybe once – Nah! He’d go on about the water and him being one.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe even try and walk on water.’
Nick’s island came into view. Bamboo grew out of the muddy shallows. The paper thin leaves rustled and rattled against the stems. A thin coil of smoke rose from behind an immense rain barrel that lay on its side. At one end, hessian bags were draped over the opening where there was a makeshift platform with a ladder leaning against it.
Coiled fencing wire ran around three sides of the island, roughly tied between metal poles. A small patch of gravelly sand ran out into the tan water where a sandbank had formed since he was last there. Max preferred this landing to Nick’s jetty, which was so ricketty it almost guaranteed you’d end up saturated.
Max leant back, raising the nose of the boat and sliding up onto the sand. Easing himself out of his seat, he stepped into the shallows and grimaced as his feet slipped in the icy water.
‘Hey Nick!’, he called . A nest of crows rustled tetchily in the trees. ‘Nick! You there? It’s Max.’
Nikolai Ivanovich pushed aside a hessian bag. ‘Smell the coffee, did you?’ Nick stood there with a kaleidoscope of cast-off clothes covering his body. A navy blue track suit with white stripes down the arms and legs, another red track suit jacket, the top of the pants rolled into a sausage that circumnavigated his belly and finally, thick green socks jammed into blue and white runners that were too small for him.
As Max sat himself at the fire, Nick moved around, stirring his brewed coffee, the pot nestling on the coals.
‘What is the news, my friend?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
‘But how do you know what I want to know? Tell me.’
‘Lou died. You know, my friend Lou.’
‘Lou’s dead?’
‘Killed himself, actually.’
‘Your friend, your good friend, did that?’ Nick raised his eyebrows.
‘Yep.’
‘Not a kind thing to do.’
‘Guess he didn’t feel all that kind.’
‘They tell me you feel quite calm when you are about to suicide yourself.’
Nick’s sentences and the way he pronounced some words indicated some distant past in some far-off land; but where that was, Max wasn’t sure and Nick seemed to avoid any details of his life story.
Nick poured the coffee and dumped a spoon full of sugar into it. ‘But they say that about the drowning too, as well. I nearly drownded once and I was not calm, let me tell you. I w
as thrashing around and beating at that water, saying ‘“You not going to get me. You not going to have me for supper!” No. I was not calm.’
He sat down opposite Max, a thin veil of smoke between them. Breaking off a crust of bread, he leant towards a small dark black crow limping in the dirt. ‘Here you are, you poor little bastard.’ It hobbled forward like it was taking communion, stuck its head forward and snatched the morsel from his hand.
‘That’s right. Even though I treat you well, you still not sure, are you, you poor little bastard?’ He glanced up at Max. ‘So – what is the matter? You sad? You lost? You lonely?’
Max looked at him.
‘You angry? Maybe you angry?’
Max lost himself in the heat of the white hot coals, pulsing in the heart of the fire.
‘Well?’ Nick asked.
Max slurped his coffee. He was used to Nick’s abrupt way of talking. ‘Maybe I am, but y’know, it’s not just... well nothing’s fair. His death – it just doesn’t make sense to me. I feel like I’m lost in a forest of cobwebs, mist all around. The webs are soft and make me feel numb. Like my body’s got no contact with the outside world. Sometimes it’s like I’m lost and I don’t care. Just couldn’t give a shit. ‘
The disabled crow hobbled around the fire, his family of black sentinels observing from a distance. Nick picked up the bird and cradled it in his hands, letting it nestle on his lap and feel the warmth of the fire. He placed a finger under its beak, lifting the crow’s head towards him.
‘Ah, my little crow bird. Have you been worth saving? And now that I have done this thing, does that mean I am responsible for you for the rest of your life?’ He looked through the smoke at Max. ‘When I lived with the Chinese, they taught me that. If you save something, give it life, then you are responsible for them for the rest of life.’
The hermit’s stories were dotted with references to other lands and other people but it was useless to press him for more details. And, who knows? thought Max, they could have all been lies. Indeed, Nick’s whole life could have been a lie.
‘What do you think of that, Max? I save him and now I’ve got the ugly little bastard for life.’
‘That’s a bit rich coming from him’, thought Max. ‘He’s not exactly a movie star himself.’
The fire crackled and the sap hissed. Max looked at the old man. Nick’s cheeks were wind flushed. His hair, thin and flaxen with eyes so light and clear you felt you could dive into them and swim forever. They were his best feature, for the rest of his face showed the ravage of time and a life lived alone. Deep red cracks tore at the corners of his mouth. Most of his teeth were rotten brown stumps except for one long narrow tooth in his lower gum that jumped and jittered as he spoke.
‘So you don’t have my problem, eh?’
‘What’s that?’ Max said, pulling his gaze away from the small crow in Nick’s lap.
‘Your friend – he is dead, so you don’t have to look after him.’
‘It feels like I do. And maybe that’s what shits me. Maybe I should’ve saved him. Maybe I could’ve helped him get his life back.’
‘He doesn’t blame you, Max. He doesn’t blame you. You can be sure of this.’
‘I’m not sure of anything at the moment’, he said, swirling the dregs of his coffee and tossing them into the fire which sizzled and snapped.
Nick stroked the nape of the bird’s neck like he was patting a dog. ‘I knew a monk once. He told me that all life was an illusion and the only thing that kept him glued together was contemplating his own death. It was the only definite thing in his whole life... Ah but I don’t know. It’s a strange thing to do. To give up your own life voluntarily.’
Max shrugged. ‘Yeah, but you did that. You gave up your life. You gave up everything.’
‘So you think that all this’- Nick waved his arm around his island, over the fire and finally placed his hand on his breast, – ‘all this is like death?’
‘Well, not exactly but you know what I mean. You chose to give up some things in your life. You made choices.’ A breeze scurried the red coals of the fire. ‘It doesn’t seem as though Lou had any choices to make.’
‘I had a choice, did I? What are you now, Max – a mystic who can tell past and future?’ Nick smiled his mad tooth-less grin and stood up, placing the crow on his old kitchen chair; another trophy he’d fished from the river. ‘Maybe I did have a little choice but if you choose killing yourself, then that’s the end of choosing. It’s your last choice.’ The crippled bird hopped off the chair and busied itself with the remains of an old can.
‘Well my friend. Time for you to go. The mist is lifting and you’ll miss your chance of leaving.’
Nick said this at the end of every meeting. As though the island was a Brigadoon that would vanish at the fall of the first warm rays.
Max tipped the dregs into the fire and stood up. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Nick. I’ll see ya... and thanks for the talk.’ Max thanked him out of politeness. As far as he was concerned Nick’s words had been next to useless. Then again, that was typical of Nick’s talk – it often appeared meaningless but later, you weren’t so sure.
Max pushed out, the river eager to have the kayak back where it belonged. A little downstream, he looked back at the island, where the mist rose and fell and sunrays dragged the cold from the river in thin wisps of steam. The lights from the paper mill glowed hazily. On the bridge traffic was building.
Max lugged his boat up the front steps as his father pulled in. Dave locked the car, glancing at him over the roof.
‘Early morning paddle, eh?’ he asked, a ring of irritation in his voice.
‘Yep.’
‘Where’s Woody?’
‘In bed, I guess.’
‘Who’s looking after him? You get a baby-sitter in, did you Max?’ Dave walked towards him, stopping at the bottom of the steps.
‘I thought you were home. I didn’t bother to look. I didn’t know you were going to be late home from your shift. Anyway, the kid’s nine, not nine months.’
If Dave was honest, he would have explained that the reason for his lateness and irritation was two complicated deliveries and a doctor who dumped his stress on the staff.
‘Max! I rely on you to hang around when I’m on night shift to make sure he’s alright.’
‘Well I do – normally!’
Max weighted the last word, hoping his father would back off. But Dave was not about to do any such thing. He kept right on coming.
‘Some night’s there’s babies being born every hour. I can’t say to a woman whose baby’s head has just come into view, ‘Hang on love. Have to go now. Otherwise my boy won’t be able to go for a bloody paddle. Sorry love. But he comes first.’
Max stood with his kayak resting on the ground and turned his head away. Dave’s words had punched and bruised him. ‘I don’t normally do it. Just didn’t think.’
‘What about ‘sorry’, Max? You can’t even be bothered to apologise. You know, whether you believe it or not, I miss Lou too. I’ve cried a few tears m’self but your moping is like a dead weight on the house. You’ve got to get on with your own life – nothing’s bringing him back. Wandering out at night, not saying anything at home, on the river early in the morning. Where have you been!!? To see that old bloke up the river, whoever he is, whatever he is. Well – I hope he gave you good advice!’
Max looked blankly at his father, as though Dave’s face held nothing for him.
Dave continued. ‘Did he tell you that what Lou did was stupid? Did he tell you that you had to get back on your bike and stop driving us crazy?’
The morning was still and melancholy. ‘Can I go in now?’ Max asked.
Dave sighed and brushed past him. ‘Yes – go inside, go where you like, do what you like. You will at any rate.’
10
THERE WAS A CALL OVER THE PA for Max to come down to the Principal’s office. He knocked on the door and waited. The Principal opened the door and ushered
Max in. There, standing in the office was a huge bloke in a dark blue suit, with a purple cut under his eye and bruising around what used to be the man’s nose.
Fatman eyeballed Max just long enough to make Max’s stomach churn. It was no doubt a skill he’d learnt over the years.
‘This is Max Fairchild, Detective’, the Principal said.
‘No need to introduce us, Mr. Davidson. We know each other, don’t we, son?’
Max swallowed and looked at the Principal and then at the man. Max struggled for a look that might indicate some confusion. ‘Do we? I’m afraid I don’t remember, Sir. Am I supposed to know you?’ He smiled a helpful smile.
Fatman breathed menacingly, his face swelling and turning red, his nose throbbing.
Mr. Davidson, decided to assert some of his own authority and offered the policeman a seat.
‘Detective Gillespie is looking for a young man who was involved in an incident recently – at the trestle bridge up near Claire Station. That’s quite near where you live, isn’t it, Max?’
‘Yes, Sir, it is. But what’s that got to do with me?’
Gillespie sat down. Max looked around for a chair.
‘I think you can keep standing’, said Mr Davidson.
‘What it has to do with you, young man, is that the detective found your student card in the bushes underneath the bridge. It was right where the incident took place – a matter of graffiti and an assault on a railway policeman – Detective Gillespie, in fact.’
Max didn’t dare look in the direction of that gash and that nose. His heart was thumping like a man buried alive, beating his hands on the lid of his own coffin. His palms began to sweat, the clamminess spreading to his armpits.
Davidson slid the card across his desk. Fatman stared at Max, his face contorted into a hate-fills-his-heart scowl.
Max looked at it. The card was his – no doubt about it. But what could he say? Whatever he was going to come out with would ring like an empty can and it would ring louder, the longer they had to wait for an answer.
‘It is my card, sir, but that doesn’t mean I was down there. I mean’, and then, thanks be to Dave, he plucked a sentence out of the air, ‘I mean, most nights I have to stay home and look after Woody, my little brother.’ He tried to look like a neglected but responsible child and added, ‘Dad does a lot of nightshift.’