by Michael Hyde
Max and his father stood and watched the little car make its way up the street. Dave put his arm around his son’s shoulders and pulled him close. He began to say something, but the words drifted away...
Max went inside to his room. Lou’s piece of writing lay on the bed, fluttering in a breeze that blew through his open window. He picked it up and looked at it. Yes, he remembered the time when Lou wrote this:
Lou Petrocelli
Year 10 Green
English
Topic: Something burns within me
It’s a dark balmy summer’s night. There is the coolest of breezes whipping up the dust in the carpark. We have spray cans in our bags. A factory wall, clean as a washed blackboard, stands before us. We have no ladder. We are alone. We don’t know what to write. But our cans are full and we have a blank wall. It is 11:45 p.m. Something burns within us.
I ask my mate if he wants to start. He doesn’t. I raise my hand, my finger poised on the button. Fear gets the better of me for a moment, in the same way it does when you are about to write the first line.
The fear ebbs, then vanishes like a magician’s rabbit as soon as I begin. The first spray hits the wall and at the same time any resistance in my head flies away.
I work quickly. Tonight we work in blue and black, rounded swirling fat letters, intertwined and buried in big blocks of yellow. I drew the sketch of this piece in art and I know it like the back of my hand.
We chose the letters ‘ESP’ because we think it would be great to be able to do it. But mainly they were chosen because they’re great to paint, great to experiment with.
I stop and my friend takes over. Some nights you don’t work well together but tonight we are like twins on the same team. He bends the ‘S’ around, making it look very relaxed. Then I throw the ‘P’ up, only to bury some of it in thick layers of deep blue. Meanwhile he’s busy at the other end, doing a touch-up.
It has only taken twenty minutes.
A few nosy taxi drivers slow down and check us out, probably phoning the cops. We stand in the middle of the carpark, a little wind scurrying around our feet. The piece looks good. We shake hands and smile.
What more do you need: a wall, a spray can, a mate and a good dark night?
I don’t need anything else.
Underneath, Lou had written a note to his teacher.
Dear Sir,
Sorry it’s late. All of this is complete fiction but it makes a good story, doesn’t it, Sir?
L.P.
17
THERE WAS A KIOSK near the Falls. The river was fat and full-bodied. People sipped cappuccinos on the outside tables, covered by market umbrellas. Children squealed and giggled, hopping in and out of the rental canoes tied up at the jetty, like a line of horses tethered to a rail.
Max noticed nothing and seemingly cared for nothing. In his pocket lay Lou’s writing, wrapped in a sealed plastic bag. He could hear the faint rush of water around the bend. On his left, a cliff with a lookout perched on top. The cliff rose and then dropped to a patch of grass that was almost level with the water where it lay calm after the wrath of the Falls.
This time there was no argument raging in his head, no decision to be made. No hesitation, no panic. Max and his kayak knew exactly where they were headed. He kept his eyes fastened on the bow, slicing through the seemingly placid water. But currents were already beginning to quicken, gathering steam in the deeper river flow. No sound deflected his trance, except the rustling of paper in his pocket.
For a second he wondered if a crow would grace his craft with its presence. Then a familiar shiver ran through him as he felt eyes watching from the top of the yellow-rocked cliff. The Falls were only one hundred metres away now. Wind from the blast of the crashing turbulence rushed back through the trees. But Max kept paddling – he was a runaway train on a track that had been laid some time ago.
He heard the rumble of the Falls and as he drew closer he felt Lou all around him. Max saw his friend swinging from the bridge, saw the funeral al over again. In the mist that blew off the thundering water, he began to hear voices and saw Mrs Petrocelli as she sobbed – heart-wrenching cries racking her body. As he paddled towards the waterfall Max saw her as a young mother, a fawn-coloured shawl wrapped around her shoulders that kept her warm on a cold winter’s night as she suckled her baby, holding him as though he might die if she let him slip. A young mother who didn’t want much out of life. Just a family who loved her, children to give her grandchildren in later years, a son who wouldn’t die before her.
Like the young man who was headed for The Falls.
Max felt the deceptive calm before the storm. Branches stuck in the water shuddered, trying to tear themselves loose as he passed them by. Bending his body to the task, he felt a band of pain around his chest. Max wanted to be rid of the pain. He was sick of the words that came from nowhere, he was tired of the whirlpool of confusion and anger that beset him. He was fed up with his world going up and down like a yoyo. Even beautiful Mai couldn’t stop the cacophony of his life. One minute he was kissing her and the next all he had was tears and hurt that seemed to have no end. And even if he had second thoughts about what he was doing, there was no turning back now. The kayak was champing at the bit, its nose snorting at the chance. And its rider wanted nothing else.
The boat leapt at the water as it folded over the edge. Max felt the overwhelming rush of a torrent of water whose turn had come. For a second the front of the kayak careered into mid-air. Then the bow dipped, catapulting the kayak over the edge. Foam and roar surrounded it. Through the billowing mist, Max thought he felt eyes upon him again.
The kayak was airborne, as though it had caught a wave to hell. Its nose smacked into the water, hitting the stopper that rushed down the fall in a concave swoop that collapsed back on itself.
The water curled backwards, looping the kayak into the air, pushing Max down into the turbulent depths below.
He tumbled over and over, the tan brown water infused with millions of tiny, throbbing bubbles. The intensity of the moment – being hurled and chucked around like a matchstick in an ocean – gave Max some clarity. As he gulped water down like air and his heart hammered in his ears, his hands instinctively grabbed for the spray cover. He flipped it off and pushed with all his might, ejecting himself into a murderous tumult that ripped his helmet from his head and thumped him into the hidden ledge.
Thunder rose from the bottomless river, grabbed Max in its arms and hurled him through the stopper wall into the river current, a crimson line trailing behind him.
How long had he floated face down? How long had he been dying? Max felt the claws of death on his back, piercing his flesh. He dreamt of big arms wrapped around him, hauling at him, heaving his waterlogged body up and out into pure sweet air. He dreamt of coughing and spluttering and spitting blood – of lying on grass and somebody breathing life back into him...
18
THE CHARGE SISTER SCANNED the record sheets that were clipped on a metal board, then hung it back on the end of the bed.
‘Your son is sedated, Mr Fairchild, but he’s perfectly alright. No fractures. Concussion, a bit of hypothermia and shock. It was mainly the water he swallowed but somebody had expelled most of that. Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Fairchild?’
Dave stood by the bed while Woody sat in a chair. Max lay as though there was little of life left in him. Dave stroked his son’s head. Woody stared at his brother, transfixed by the paleness of his face and the darkness of the hair.
Max half-opened his eyes. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello, mate,’ Dave said. ‘You sore?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘Tired? Too tired to talk?’
‘Yeah. More tired than sore. Can hardly speak. Sorry.’
‘Don’t bother saying sorry, Max. Just get well. I rang your mother. Told her you were OK, more or less. I’ll ring her again tonight. Soon as you’re well, you can take a week off school and go up there, if you like. Mum thinks
it’d be good. So do I. She’d love it – and you could get away from us.’
‘Dad,’ Max raised his hand to stop his father’s babbling.
‘Sorry. Sorry, son.’
Woody fidgetted. ‘Max, tell us about going over the Falls. The nurse says...’
‘Shut up, Woody,’ Dave barked. ‘One of us blathering on is enough. You want to go to sleep, Max? We’ll go if you like.’
But Max was already in a bottomless pit of sleep.
His father and brother didn’t leave immediately. They sat there for some time in silence, Dave drinking his cup of tea and Woody sipping hot chocolate.
Janet Turner came to visit and brought him a book of poetry by somebody called Dylan Thomas. ‘There’s a poem in there I thought you might like,’ she said. ‘I put a bookmark on the page so you could find it. Hope you don’t mind. It seems teachers can never stop being teachers.’
Mai came to visit and looked around the room. She saw Max immediately but something held her back from rushing over to him.
He looked at her and saw her eyes. Without moving from the doorway Mai almost shouted, ‘I thought I said I didn’t want a dead boyfriend!’
Max gave a pathetic shrug of his shoulders. ‘God,’ he thought, ‘here I am half-dead in a hospital bed and she’s really pissed off.’
He smiled and Mai softened a little and moved towards him. ‘Can I kiss you?’
‘Yeah. Why not! To tell you the truth, I’m hanging out for it.’
Her kiss brought back memories of damp, black earth and the tangy smell of autumn leaves.
Mai pulled back and looked at him. ‘Max – will you promise me something?’
‘Depends,’ he replied, looking at the starched white bedcover tucked in like a straitjacket.
‘That you’ll stop doing this stuff? I don’t understand it.
Well, I kind of do but not really. All I know is that it’s killing you. It’s killing me too, and I bet it’s killing your dad.’
She looked hard at him and let go of his hand. Mai stroked his face, saying, ‘So – what set this off?’
‘What do you mean? The Falls?’ Max asked innocently.
‘What else?’
He sighed, expelling air that seemed to come from far away. ‘Mrs Petrocelli came to see me. When she was leaving she grabbed hold of me, almost as if I was Lou. It brought back everything again – the funeral, how they found him, the words I’ve been painting – all this shit I can’t seem to get rid of.’ Tears welled in his eyes.
He looked at Mai. ‘I don’t know – it feels like I’ll never get rid of it,’ and he burst into tears. ‘I wish I hadn’t been saved. I wish I was still floating face down. That’s what I wanted to happen. Nothing will ever change,’ he blubbered.
Mai wrapped her arms around him. If she could’ve drawn him into her she would have.
Max went on. ‘His mum gave me a piece of writing Lou did a couple of years ago. It was about graffiti – what he felt like when he was doing it. I didn’t even know he’d kept it. Must’ve been about the only piece of work from school that didn’t end up in the rubbish bin, except maybe some of his artwork. She just handed it over. I guess it must have set something off in me – something snapped. Mad, I guess!’
‘Where is it now?’
An icy paw clutched at Max’s heart. ‘I don’t know. It was in my pocket.’ He pulled himself up in bed and stared around the room. ‘My clothes have gone. Where are they? Mai, go ask the nurse! Quickly!’
‘Will you calm down, Max! Have you looked in here?’ She opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet. ‘That’s where they usually put your belongings. Is this it?’ Mai asked.
She held up the plastic bag with Lou’s writing in it.
‘Oh God! Thank God for that,’ Max put his arm around her waist. ‘Thanks, Mai – thanks heaps,’ he said, blowing his nose.
‘Can I read it?’
A strange sensation travelled through his mind. ‘I suppose so.’
‘That’s OK. I don’t have to.’
There was hurt in her eyes.
‘It’s not that I don’t want you to, Mai.’
‘No, really. It’s fine. It’s fine.’ There was silence between them. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. The library’s open late but not this late,’ she smiled. ‘See you tomorrow.’ Mai kissed him softly and vanished from his bedside like a duck disappearing into a pond.
Max lay on his side, gazing at the dull yellow of his cabinet, wondering why he couldn’t bring himself to allow her to read the bloody thing. And wondering if he really had wanted to kill himself.
A nurse arrived and asked him if he’d passed water or had a motion and then said, as an afterthought, ‘Oh, that old gentleman who rescued you came by and asked us to give you this note.’
She handed it to Max. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Yes – thanks,’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the note. ‘Excuse me – what old gentleman? Who saved me?’
‘Didn’t give a name. Seemed to know you. Difficult to tell how old he really was. Down on his luck, I’d say. No teeth and a dirty tracksuit. D’you know him?’
Max nodded and unfolded the paper. It was written on one page in one continuous paragraph. ‘Didn’t know he could write,’ thought Max.
Max,
I guess if you are reading this note you must be OK. I am glad you are alright. I must tell you that I am going and that we will not see each other again. I told you the story about the person who saves another person, they must take responsibility for the one they have saved. For the rest of their life. We are connected but I cannot take on that heavy load. I know that it should not be a load, but it is for me. (See Max... you thought I was perfect.) You wouldn’t want me to carry you and you don’t need it. Never mind, memories are enough. Like the memory of your dead friend. So goodbye, my young friend, and try to stay away from the life-threatening situations. They kill you in the end no matter who is keeping an eye out for you. And you know what I told you about crows. They knew something was up – something bad. Crows – they know things.
Goodbye and good luck,
Nikolai
Max thumped the side of his cabinet. ‘Doesn’t anybody stick around?’
19
MAX LOOKED OUT THE BUS WINDOW, sending a sad smile to his father, Woody and Mai. It was late morning and buses were lined up. In a cloud of blue fumes his bus roared into life and turned into the traffic, heading for the northern freeway, leaving the three of them waving on the footpath.
He stared vacantly down on the cars and motorbikes streaming past below his window. Traffic and roads and dirty smoke – they didn’t interest him. It had been one of the big differences between Max and Lou. Lou had liked motorbikes, factories, chimneys. An urban artist at heart.
‘Just can’t get him out of my mind. If only it would let up for a bit. Let me off the hook. Get this cattle prod off my back.’ Max fingered the pages of Lou’s writing, resting in his lap. ‘For once I’d like to have a chest that feels light – to get rid of this metal band. Everybody thinks I’m driving them nuts. They should try being in my head for a while, then they’d know what nuts is!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
A voice jolted him out of his reflection. A middle-aged woman sat next to him, dressed the way people that age dress for travel. Neat and comfortable but not so casual as to appear informal.
‘I thought you said something?’ she asked again.
Max blinked at her, searching for words. He wasn’t sure what thoughts had slipped out of his mouth.
‘Probably just dreaming. I’m pretty tired.’
‘Well, there’ll be plenty of time for sleeping on this trip. Where are you going?’
‘Brown’s Beach. I get off at Venice and then my mum picks me up.’
‘Oh, you’re going to see your mother. How nice. I’m off to see my son. Him and his wife just broke up. Thought I’d go and cook him a few meals. They live up in Bairnsdale – well, she doesn’t liv
e there any more. Took the kids and left. Not sure where. I don’t want to be bitter but it’s hard when your own children are involved. You’ll know that one day, when you have kids.’ She opened a flask and poured herself a cup of milk coffee. ‘Want some?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘I know you’re not supposed to drink on the bus but’ – she peeked over the seats at the driver and his rear vision mirror – ‘it’s a stupid rule and I’m too old to put up with stupid rules!’ She smiled at Max, giving him a gentle nudge in the side.
His travelling companion was warm and chatty. She meant no harm. But Max wondered if she’d talk for the whole five hours to Bairnsdale. He’d once been stuck with a truckie, travelling up the coast to collect his prime mover from the repair shop. He’d trapped Max for hours, regaling him with truck-driving stories and showing him photos of trucks and a stream of accidents. He had hundreds of them.
‘I forget,’ said Max. ‘How far is it to Venice?’
‘Seven hours. Venice. Now there’s a pretty name.’ The woman turned to Max, suddenly becoming quite animated. ‘Italians settled there after the war. Australia’s got so many interesting names – Italians, Aboriginal or just plain funny. Have you ever heard of Mad Dog Creek? I just love those names. I do! I suppose you think I’m silly, prattling on like this? Look at you. Your eyes are drooping. You must be so tired. I’d better stop.’
‘It’s OK,’ Max said out of some polite habit.
‘No, no,’ the woman said, patting him on the leg. ‘You get some sleep.’
He let his head fall back, feeling the vibrations of the bus engines. As he slipped into a deep sleep, he heard his travelling companion murmur to herself, ‘Venice, Mad Dog, Clematis. How lovely...’