Boyz 'R' Us

by Scott Monk

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Boyz ‘R’ Us

  ePub ISBN 9781742742748

  Kindle ISBN 9781742742755

  Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published in 1996

  This edition published in 2005

  Copyright © Scott Monk 1996

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Monk, Scott, 1974–.

  Boyz ‘r’ us.

  For secondary students

  ISBN 1 7416 6018 1.

  ISBN 978 1 74166 018 0

  1. Gangs – Fiction. I. Title.

  A823.3

  Cover photograph by Marcus Lyon

  Cover design by Ellie Exarchos

  Author photograph by Jeremy Piper

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Biography

  For Shane, the first to see past

  the black and white graffiti.

  PROLOGUE

  ‘People said I’d end up in jail. It just took longer than they expected. I couldn’t blame everyone for thinking that way. I always was a loser getting in trouble with the law. The pigs were forever hassling me and judges threatening to lock me up. I never listened to them, though. I should have. If I had I wouldn’t be doing time now, eating lumpy food and showering with every murderer who’s been on the six o’clock news.

  ‘You can’t imagine what it’s like. It’s nothing like TV. Living in a cold tomb is one way of describing it. Not living at all is another. The worst thing is everything’s grey — floors, walls, doors, uniforms, meals. And especially hope. Guys go stir-crazy with the same colour staring back at them day-in, day-out, every day of the year. That’s why each cell’s got a window, I guess. To keep us sane. Waking up to see blue skies and white clouds outside is a depressing happiness I hope you’ll never need to find out about.

  ‘But that’s not what you’re interested in. You want to know why I’m in jail. Well, every guy’s got a story and I’ll share mine with anyone who wants to listen to the truth. I suppose it’s a good story to tell kids and keep them on the “straight and narrow” to protect them from people like me.

  ‘Now I’m not into telling you how to wipe your nose. That’s for the preachers. But I am into saving you a whole lot of trouble. Because once you’re inside you realise your life has ended just as Ned Kelly did standing on the gallows.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  I squatted down, glanced sideways, popped the blade and plunged it into the Jaguar’s back wheel. The knife thrashed left-right-left-right, making a jigsaw puzzle of the black rubber. Sickly gas exploded from the puncture and scrambled down my throat. I stopped to cough up the nauseous smell before speeding up my work. Quickly the square edges frayed and I dug my fingers into the gutted wheel, feeling for rubber chunks. Finding some, I finished scattering them outside the tyre to make the hole look like a blow-out and stood up, pocketing the knife. Then, with a cautious look north to school, I grabbed my bag and walked home drinking a Coke.

  I’d done this before, and I wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much if the car had belonged to anyone else except the principal. I thought my life of petty crime was behind me — a lifestyle which burnt me good — but temptation won. The dark half of my conscience wanted so bad for me to perform one last trick before I started my new, “honest” life. Admittedly, I felt guilty — a cocky type of guilt — and scared. (Hey, I wasn’t one of those fear-junkies who lived off adrenalin pumping through their veins as they shoplifted for fun.) The car was Sternfeld’s beloved metallic cat. He polished it twice a week, never parked it in a public street and, if possible, would’ve showered, slept and eaten in it twenty-four hours a day. He wouldn’t let his wife touch it, let alone drive it. If there was one way to get Sternfeld riled it was by torturing his $57,000 pedigree pet.

  But he deserved it. His accusation I blew up the chemistry lab and the two week suspension that followed were the reasons I was close to repeating my final year at school. Everyone knew Barry Wheeler planted the home-made explosive in the prep room. Everyone except Sternfeld. He wouldn’t even look at the evidence, relying instead on my previous record of big red crosses in his big black book to threaten me with failure of my School Certificate. Egomaniac. It brought a smile to his face. And now the score was levelled — not settled. It would never be settled. My guess is the closest thing to a truce me and Sternfeld would ever agree to was when I stood up, walked out after my last exam and we said good riddance to each other. But that was still three months of detentions and lectures away. A year and three months if he found out about the Jag.

  My gut was after more than a victory drink so I stopped by Hai’s Takeaway for a bite. The place was empty that afternoon which was strange. It was the number one hang-out after and during school. The teachers regularly raided it demanding why guys like me were jigging class. But that was no reason why Hai’s should be empty now. It was 3:35pm. The teachers’ control over us finished fifteen minutes ago.

  Ordering a hamburger with the lot, I sat down in a booth and watched the owner slap a meat patty, egg, bacon and onion rings onto the greasy black grill. With nothing better to do and nobody to jaw with, I played table hockey with an ashtray, using the menu as goalposts. I wasn’t expecting company but company was expecting me.

  ‘Go Mitch!’

  I jumped at the sound of my name. The first thing I learnt on the streets was always be alert, especially when I was alone. I needn’t have worried though. It was just one of the year nines walking by. He’d seen me lounging inside and wanted to impress his three gawky mates by pretending to know me. Stupid showoff. I ignored him. If he knew what his “hero” was really like he would’ve kept on walking in silence. ‘Show Barry Wheeler your right,’ he added.

  ‘What?’ I said, sitting up. ‘What did you say?’

 
; He stopped and poked his head around the door. He didn’t know whether to run or feel privileged I was talking to him. ‘Show Barry Wheeler your right,’ he said, not so confident this time.

  ‘What’s that s’posed to mean?’ I asked, walking up to him.

  ‘Deck him.’

  ‘Why would I want to deck him?’

  ‘You know. At the fight.’

  ‘What fight?’

  ‘The one in ten minutes,’ the year nine said. ‘Between you and Barry Wheeler.’

  Stunned, I listened to him tell me the full story. Apparently during lunch, Wheeler stirred up my crew, the Marrickville Thunderjets, saying I’d turned soft. I hadn’t been running with the guys for some time now, hassling shop owners, train surfing and leaving my “tag” on every available space. Everyone was starting to question my loyalty. Including Wheeler. Especially Wheeler. He said the gang needed a new leader. Him. And it didn’t take long for the guys to agree.

  Now I’m no egg-head but I reckoned Wheeler sounded like that Napoleon guy — a dead dude I’d heard about in history class. He was always boasting and causing trouble too. Whereas Wheeler lacked guts to conquer half the world, he sure had the height. And the fatal attraction for fights.

  Gangs loved fights — lots of fights — and you only became a leader by starting one. You couldn’t say no. It was the rule. The Thunderjets had this binding contract in blood called the Oath which forced the leader to take on all challengers. The tradition started with our first leader, Stephen Malden. He wanted to bring out any backstabbers and fight them face-to-face rather than turn around and find one smiling at him. Leadership duels were usually settled with fists. I’d heard of knife fights before in other Sydney gangs but never one in the Thunderjets.

  Everyone got word of Wheeler’s plans at my school, Wardell Road High, the biggest hang-out for crims and tough guys outside Sydney’s juvenile detention centres. If someone wanted to keep a secret, whispering it at school wasn’t the best idea. Wheeler told Todd, who told Sarah-Jane, who told John, who told — you get the picture. By seventh period everyone knew about the new Napoleon and the arranged fight. Odds were given and betted on as supporters took sides. Cash swapped hands and kids shadow-boxed each other in the quadrangle, excited about how much blood would be spilled. With all the commotion, it was amazing no teachers heard of the planned rumble.

  But two things about this fight were interesting. First, it was to be held away from gang territory. I suspect Wheeler could call a rematch if he lost, using that very fact as an excuse. Second, and most important, one of the contestants, again namely me, still hadn’t heard about it until he was halfway home. I’d been in sick bay for the last three periods with I-forgot-to-do-my-homework-itis.

  I decided to check the rumour out. Sure enough, ten minutes later most of Wardell Road High was down at Beaman Park wondering where I was. The crowd had become edgy, taunting and jeering me for not showing up. I’d spoiled their afternoon and they weren’t too forgiving. Soon I’d be declared the loser and the Thunderjets would announce Wheeler as their new leader.

  It didn’t bother me. They’d regret it.

  Barry Wheeler had been a screwed-up kid for as long as anybody had known him. At the age of nine he stole hubcaps. At ten, he broke into a cop car at Bathurst and drove it past Dubbo before running out of petrol. At thirteen, he did his first ram-raid job: the kind that always gets on TV with glass flying, a car in the shop and masked bandits looting the joint. At fourteen, he stripped BMWs, Porsches and Jags and sold the parts to guys who were now doing time. Not that many BMWs, Porsches or Jags rolled down to Marrickville for a family picnic these days. If a job needed to be done involving cars, Wheeler was the man. If he was clean by laying off the wacky weed, he could do it without trouble. But if he was stoned, the chances of him avoiding arrest were the same as a camel winning the next Melbourne Cup.

  Nobody in our gang had known Wheeler as long as I had, so naturally he latched onto me as some sort of mate. I shrugged him off. He wasn’t any friend of mine. Loners liked being by themselves. Me especially. The only reason I occasionally hung with Wheeler and the other losers in our crew was they attracted the chicks. Not that I couldn’t myself. I’m no basket case. It’s just the boys had a better rapport with the other sex. They spoke their lingo. Danced their body language. All that mushy stuff.

  Anyway, Wheeler was a try-hard. No, more: a try-hard try-hard. He always wanted to be leader. And it seemed he couldn’t wait any longer. Problem was, the Marrickville Thunderjets already followed someone else — namely me. Leaders were always challenged in gangs and it looked like it was my time.

  The Coke tasted good washing down the last chunk of hamburger. I watched the mob from the top of a nearby fence half-hidden by trees. Wheeler always fought dirty and this was a fight he wanted to win. He desperately wanted to lead the Thunderjets and pay me back for all the times I’d treated him like the reject that he was. The leadership didn’t matter to me any more. Losing to him might.

  Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Two skateboards.

  I swirled the rest of the Coke before emptying the last drop, crushed it into an aluminium biscuit and aimed my throw at the nearby bin.

  Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-eeeeech!

  ‘Hey! Watch it, homey. You nearly hit me.’

  For gangkids, “homey” meant “friend”. This waxhead wasn’t using it that way.

  I shrugged. He was thirteen. I was fifteen. He needed to respect his elders.

  ‘Hey pal, he’s talking to you,’ his friend said.

  ‘You nearly hit me with that can. I want an apology.’

  I glanced over my shoulder at the school crowd waiting for the rumble to start. It looked like the whole situation was about to get out of control.

  ‘Yo, homey. Are you deaf?’

  ‘Yer, that hat of yours cutting off the blood to your brain?’

  I slowly twisted my head and stared down at the two members of the tribe of grunge wearing beanies over long, unwashed hair and nursing worn skateboards plastered with surfing stickers. I thought about making an issue of how those two could never spell beach let alone know what one was, but let it slide. I was a bomber. They were waxhead skaties. They knew the rules. Push the other too far and expect trouble.

  ‘What are you looking at? Don’t look at me that way. I’ll smash you with this if you keep looking at me.’ The first skatie shook his board and snarled, his sun-baked zit cream cracking. ‘I sent the last bomber who messed with me to hospital in a coma, right?’

  His friend, Frankenstein’s monster with a Shirley Temple wig, nudged him. ‘I say we grab his hat and throw it on the road. Homeys’d ditch their girlfriends before they’d take off their hats. Ain’t that right, fence boy?’

  I crossed my arms. I had a fight to go to. ‘Why don’t you two little girls get on your skateboards and find the nearest hairdresser? I heard they’ve got a special on women’s haircuts this week.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ the first skatie asked the second. ‘Homey here made a joke. It hurt my funny bone so much I’m going to have to get some medical attention.’ They both laughed. ‘Want to hurt me again, homey?’

  I inched forward. They jumped back.

  A smile crept over my mouth. Cowards. All lip and no guts. I leaned back against a tree shooting up from behind the fence. I wanted to scare them but not hurt them.

  ‘Oooooh,’ the two sang, clinging to each other with mock fright. ‘You got us worried, homey.’

  ‘C’mon. I’ll take you on,’ Frankenstein said, shaking the fence. ‘Just you and me.’

  ‘Then me if you win,’ his friend added.

  ‘If you win.’

  ‘C’mon, be a man, homey. Show us how gangkids fight. Let’s see what you’re made of.’

  ‘Get lost,’ I said.

  ‘Wuss!’

  ‘Wussssssssssss!’

  ‘I said get lost.’

  ‘Wussbag!’

  ‘Wussssssssssss!’
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  ‘Fight me, you wuss!’

  ‘Wussssssssssss!’

  ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’

  ‘Wuss! Wuss! Wuss!’

  ‘Fight! Fight! Fi —?!’

  I leapt down, catching them defenceless. The cowards panicked, jumped onto their boards and tried to skate to safety, Frankenstein trailing twenty metres behind his mate, desperately kicking the concrete. He kicked too hard and tripped, the board shooting out from under him. Seeing I was almost on top of him, Frankenstein scrambled to his feet and bolted, his enormous running shoes flap! flap! flapping! against the concrete. He soon joined his mate cowering behind the corner of the fence.

  I pulled up short. I was out of breath. The smokes were getting to me. The skaties were grateful though. They thought they’d beaten me, grinning as they showed their respect with a one-finger salute. That was until Frankenstein’s skateboard nudged my foot and I flipped it into my hand.

  ‘Hey! What — What are you doing? That’s my board, man! You steal that and I’ll kill you! Kill you, right? I’ll kill you!’

  I didn’t even look back. I jumped on the board and coasted down the road.

  ‘I’m going to KILL you, man. You’re dead! Dead!’

  — Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk —

  ‘Get him, man. That’s my board!’

  The entrance to the park approached rapidly on my right. I jumped off and let the board roll unaided into the oncoming traffic. Good old Marrickville streets. I could rely on them when I needed them.

  Needless to say Frankenstein and his mate swore violently. They’d have to kill me some other time. I watched them run past trying to stop a garbage truck chugging up the street with the skateboard dragging between two of its wheels.