by Scott Monk
But teaching wiseguys a lesson wasn’t why I was here. Readjusting my bag over one shoulder, I breathed, ‘Time to make an appearance,’ then headed towards where the noise was coming from.
Under the trees, Wheeler was stirring up the crowd again. ‘He’s never gonna show,’ he said. ‘The man’s chickened out. He doesn’t have the guts to face me. He’s scared I’ll bust his face. Always been like that. Can’t fight because it might mess up his hair.’
The crowd laughed. I shook my head. They were just as bad as that year nine at the hamburger joint. Sucking up to Wheeler was a waste of time. His new respect for them wouldn’t last. By tomorrow, his name calling, threats and standover tactics would continue as if nothing had happened this afternoon.
‘He’s home right now, hiding under his bed with his teddy bear.’
‘You better watch out, Wheeler,’ I said, my voice pushing the crowd apart. ‘Man might think you’ve actually got the nerve to go through with this.’
The crowd erupted, cheering and chanting my name. It was a blood song. Something as old as Adam. They did it because I was bigger, faster; not because they respected or liked me. They wanted to back a winner, and Wheeler was anything but. Five hours ago I was the dark and moody kid they watched for on Australia’s Most Wanted. Now, I was some James Dean ready to pop a smart-mouthed punk one down by the old hang-out like in the movies. Well, I was glad to say I’d never watched anything made before I was born and James Dean was a dead dude chicks had a fetish about pinning up on their walls. Popping some punk one down by the old hang-out wasn’t my scene any more.
‘Ready to fight, Mitch?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope, cause there ain’t gonna be a fight today.’
Some people started booing.
My statement caught Wheeler off guard. ‘You’re a chicken, Jarrett.’
‘I don’t want to fight,’ I said. ‘You want to be leader, you be the leader. I’m not gonna stop you.’
‘No way, Mitch.’ It was one of our gang, Flash Jack. ‘I’m not going to serve this midget. Fight him!’
I shrugged.
‘You have to fight him.’ That was Peeper, with his big eyes bugging out. ‘You know the rules of the Oath. Don’t give up the leadership.’
‘You want to fight him, Peeper, go ahead. I’m outta here.’
‘CHICKEN! CHICKEN!’ some of the crowd started chanting, led by, you guessed it, Napoleon himself. If the teachers ever needed an example of peer pressure this was one. Apparently not wanting to fight made me the loser and Wheeler the winner. Well, forget them. If their loyalty changed as quickly as that so would Wheeler’s decision not to shake protection money out of them if he won. It would be their fault not mine. Cold-shouldering me wasn’t a hassle. I was a loner and I could live with it.
On my way home I was still glad about making the right decision. A second Coke and a smoke helped cloud over the memory. The strong smells of oil and warm steel too as I kicked stones alongside the train tracks. The whole situation spooked me. I’d never turned down a fight before. And with my “best buddy” Barry Wheeler offering his face as a punching bag, why the wimp-out? Any other time I would have decked him without thinking. The answer lay in something bad that had happened a few weeks before and I now wanted to forget. Forget real fast. Let me just say I saw life as a long road and there was no “live fast, die young” short cut.
Home was only five minutes away when I decided to pull up and admire my handiwork on a billboard. In pointy, orange letters the words “PIGS DO FLY” crawled across the blue road sign indicating traffic police patrolling the area’s skies. Underneath it my alter ego, Deathcard, boldly tagged his name like a badge of honour. I marked it eight months ago after scoring a date with a girl I had a massive crush on. I was so happy that night I needed to express it in paint. Romantic, huh? But that wasn’t the only reason why the graffiti was there. Defacing public property annoyed everyone from residents to the government. Hey, it worked.
Each gang controlled a territory of two or three suburbs. Graffiti and fights were two ways of staking that claim; kind of like how dogs left scents. The Thunderjets focused more on the graffiti and vandalism side of gang life than fighting, since our numbers were smaller than the more dangerous Cabramatta and Homebush gangs. We were good at it too. Some of our best pieces were in train tunnels — the only true underground art world. Travel anywhere in Sydney and I guarantee our signatures will be close by on posters, trains, walls, shops, windows or even a wino’s jacket.
The reason I mention all this is because that Thursday — the day of the expected fight — changed the rest of my life. I’d never intended to give up the leadership so easily. If I’d walked home a different way or taken a bus everything would have ended differently. I would’ve been watching TV or playing basketball, not face-down in the dirt rolling with pain.
I didn’t see the plank of wood until the last second. The blow knocked me completely off my feet.
‘Our grudge ain’t settled yet, Mitch,’ a shadow said.
‘You’ll pay for that, Wheeler,’ I spat, tasting blood. ‘That wasn’t smart.’
‘Neither was running out on our fight. You should’ve known I’d come after you.’
‘Then why didn’t you leave the Jets behind? Or do you need to stand on their shoulders to look me in the eye?’
‘Oh, that’s good, Mitch. I’m really scared now.’
Wheeler pretended to shake with fear, hamming it up to the five guys he’d brought with him. The Thunderjets smiled.
‘What do you want from me?’ I was still on the ground. Vulnerable.
‘You know what I want, Mitch. You took what was mine.’
‘What?’
‘The Jets.’
‘I said you can have them. I don’t want them any more.’
Wheeler shook his head. ‘The Oath says the challenger has to fight the current leader, or have you forgotten that?’
‘Forget the Oath. The crew’s yours.’
‘I don’t want it handed to me. I want to win it.’
‘I said no fights!’
Wheeler ooohed. ‘Watch your temper, Mitch. It’s bad for your rep.’ He circled me, calculating any weaknesses. ‘I don’t care bout what you want, mate. I care bout what the Oath says. You and I both know there’s only one way to become leader of our crew. And it ain’t through you telling a bunch of nerds you’ve turned soft.’
‘Forget soft!’
‘Then what’s wrong with you, Mitch? Your brother been putting the squeeze on you, huh? Forcing you to go straight? Or does it have something to do with that rumble with the Barbarians? Knifed you pretty good, didn’t they?’
I looked away.
‘That is it, isn’t it? Huh? You have turned chicken.’
‘I ain’t soft and I ain’t a coward.’ I was on my feet now. Addressing the others, I said, ‘That Barbarian cut me cause my buddy here filled his undies. He shot out on me the first sign of a blade. Left me to bleed till the pigs arrived. Real good qualities for a leader don’t you think, shorty?’
Wheeler growled.
‘You gonna help your friends that way every time?’
‘You’re lying,’ he snarled.
I returned his oooh. ‘Touchy, touchy. Better watch out, Wheeler. A temper’s bad for your rep, remember?’
‘Shut up, traitor. You pay me respect. Everybody treats me as leader now, right? And that includes you.’
‘Five seconds ago you were challenging me to run the crew. Now you’ve got them. Did I miss something?’
‘Yer — this!’
He surprised me with a fast punch to the chest. I reeled back, let my defences down and exposed myself for another attack. He didn’t knock back the opportunity. He swung the plank again and cut it in low. I dodged it once — but not a second time. It jabbed my guts and I fell forwards. The ground greeted me hard.
Wheeler moved in to finish me. Playing possum, I rolled my eyes back and let my head sink. He lowered h
is defences to gloat long enough to the Jets for me to kick his legs out from under him. I sprang. Steel fists pistoned into his stomach. Left. Right. Left. Right. I needed to knock his second wind out before he turned on me again. But he hit back, and with a dirty trick. A knee to the groin and I was on the ground again, holding the pain.
Okay, he’d won.
Wiping the blood from his mouth, Wheeler staggered to his feet and winced. ‘You’re finished, Mitch. The crew’s mine now.’
‘You ain’t my leader. No way I’m gonna follow you. Whatever friendship we had’s ended. Dead. Got it? Now get outta my sight.’ I spat at his foot.
‘You always were weak, Mitch. A little boy in a girlie dress. What happened to the great man we ran with, the guy who was scared of nothing? He turned yella, that’s what. Pulled up his skirt and ran all the way home to cry. Well, you ain’t gonna get out of the Thunderjets that easily, friend. You’re gonna serve under me. Cop the flak you gave me all these years. I want you to lick my boots whenever they get dirty. And you’re gonna do it too. Whatever I say — you do.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘No, that’s what I know. You’re bound by a blood oath. You’ve gotta do whatever the leader says. Once in a gang always in a gang, remember?’
‘The Oath’s nothing. I don’t follow it any more. Only zombies like you hide behind it because it’s all you’ve got in life.’
‘Tough man, huh? Full of tough talk? C’mon, hero. Want to go a second round?’
‘I don’t want to do anything cept see you leave. For the last time, and I mean it, leave me alone.’
‘What if I don’t want to, Mitch? What are you gonna do? Cry to Mummy bout big, bad Barry —’
Wheeler bit down hard on his tongue as I kicked him in the guts. That comment was as low as even he sunk. Watching on the sidelines, Peeper, Marc, Flash Jack and the two other Thunderjets didn’t know what to do.
‘Get him!’ Wheeler yelled. ‘Get him!’
Gang loyalty changes instantly when a new leader tells the pack to jump. I had no chance. But at least my three pals stayed out of it. Not even they could sway the rest of the gang if they tried. They chose to watch the blood instead.
After that there wasn’t much to tell. The rest of my old gang turned against me, reminded me the hard way what the Oath meant and bashed me unconscious. The next thing I remember was waking up in a strange room smelling of coffee.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Mitch? Mitchell? Are you okay?’
The voice was familiar yet forgettable. I’d heard it a long time ago in my childhood, even though it sounded deeper now. The words came from an unseen face in an unfamiliar darkness.
‘Who’s there?’ I said.
‘At last,’ the voice breathed. ‘Mitchell, it’s Elias Batrouney. Don’t move. It’s okay. You’re at my place.’
He didn’t have to worry about me moving. The pain was paralysing.
‘Elias Batrouney?’
Why did the name mean something?
‘We go to school together. We’re in the same year. I was one of The Tower Club, remember?’
The Tower Club? A name I hadn’t thought about for years. In the fourth grade me and a couple of primary school mates got together to build this cubbyhouse we called The Tower. (Stupid I know, but give us a break. We were only nine.) Two storeys high and wide enough to comfortably fit four guys per floor, it still stood in Beamen Park, rotting away. We never stopped playing armies, cars and hand-held computer games in its walls hidden from the adult world, or acting out scenes from Star Wars, the ultimate movie when you’re young. Those were great times. I always got to play Han Solo because he was the coolest character and I knew every line Harrison Ford said in all three movies. (I’d watched Star Wars about a zillion times.)
As we grew older the appeal of The Tower lessened until we closed the drawbridge for the final time. By then high school started and if a guy wanted to avoid getting his head flushed down the dunny because he was some little primary pansy, the kiddie games and cubby-houses had to go. That, or secretly play armies by himself.
Elias, like he said, was one of those mates. A mate I dropped three weeks into high school for the “cooler” crowd of Wheeler & Co.
‘Is Sean here?’ I still couldn’t see. Blood glued my eyes shut.
‘Right here, little brother. How do you feel?’
I tried to smile. ‘Better than I’ll be when the lectures start flying.’
‘You’ve got that right. It’s —’
‘Mitch!’ piped a small voice. ‘Mitch, you’re awake.’
Sean helped Allison onto the bed.
‘G’day, Ally,’ I croaked. ‘Not so hard with the squeezing. Let me breathe.’
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. Did you miss me?’
‘Yer, I did. And Mummy too.’
I flinched. Sean shuffled his feet. We hoped she wouldn’t start on that again.
Allison touched my cheek. ‘Mitch, you look bad.’
‘Okay, Allison,’ Sean said, lifting her off the bed and setting her back on the floor, ‘I think Mitch already knows that. Can you be a big girl for me and Mitch and go down the corridor and thank Mrs Batrouney for minding Mitch this afternoon? She’s been very kind.’
‘Okay,’ she said, nursing her head on a shoulder. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Bat-rude-knee that.’ Somewhere in her five-year-old mind she knew she was being shrugged off.
‘Elias, can you go with her? Thanks. I want to talk to Mitch for a couple of minutes if you don’t mind. And thanks again for helping.’
I heard the door close.
Left alone and with neither of us knowing how to start, Sean explored Elias’s bedroom as I cleared the junk out of my eyes. Barely any light shone through the curtains, suggesting it was late. Silhouettes of model fighter planes spun above a bedside table with several drained coffee mugs resting on its surface. A bowl of cold, red water rested on the carpet, bloodied by the towel soaking in it. Sean and Elias had been waiting here for some time. One or two hours by the evidence. It must have been one solid pounding to knock me cold for that long.
‘So,’ Sean began, standing at the end of the bed. ‘Apparently you’re one lucky kid. Elias told me he found you in that dirt lot bleeding badly. He brought you here, bandaged you up and rang me at home. He said you were involved in a fight at school.’
‘It wasn’t at school,’ I said. ‘I’m not that stupid. Sternfeld would be signing my expulsion form right now.’
‘But you got into a fight, right?’
‘Yer. Barry Wheeler turned on me. He wants to be a big shot.’
‘I told you gangs —’
‘Save the sermon, Sean. I know what you’re gonna say. I’ve been listening to you. And I agree.’
‘Then why are you here, all cut up?’
‘That’s why he jumped me. I said I was quitting.’
Sean moved around to my side. ‘You’re quitting?’
‘Yer, you heard me. I’m quitting.’
‘What brought this about?’
I picked up a black photo frame from the bedside table. A young Lebanese man, seventeen by his face, smiled to the right side of the picture at a joke long forgotten. He looked like the brother Elias never had.
‘You,’ I answered.
‘Me?’
‘Yer, you. What you said after I was knifed by that Barbarian got to me. Kept me awake — gave me nightmares. I don’t want to die again, Sean. Once was scary enough. There ain’t any future for me running with the Jets.’ I sat up. ‘I guess you always were right about them.’
‘About what?’
‘Y’know,’ I said, shrugging. ‘About how the only gang you wanted me to be in was a gang of three — you, me and Ally?’
Sean smiled. ‘About how I’d beat up every kid in the Thunderjets to get you out if need be?’
‘I didn’t think you cared.’
‘Cared? You’re my kid brother. There isn’t anything I c
are more about than Ally and you.’
‘Not even music?’
‘Not even music.’
‘Not even if The Heart Pirates became the next Beatles?’
‘Not even if The Heart Pirates became the next Beatles.’
Wow. He really meant it. His band was his life.
‘But,’ Sean added, ‘if you keep running around with your bomber mates, terrorising old ladies, I might just forget about you. Got it?’
‘Yer, I got it.’
I rolled my eyes. I hated it when Sean-the-cool-big-brother turned into Sean-the-parent. He was eighteen, not forty. Sometimes he had to mother me to keep me out of trouble though, or our family would fall apart. But it still didn’t mean I liked being treated like a kid.
Sean peered outside the curtains. ‘Mitch, I’m sorry for the past couple of years —’
‘You’re sorry? For what?’
‘I let you down. Mum wanted me to take care of you and I failed. You getting into gangs is all my fault.’
‘Your fault? Rubbish, man. You had nothing to do with it. I joined the Jets cause I fell in love with the power that came with being a homeboy. It’s hard to put this right, man, so don’t think I’m dumb —’
‘You’re not dumb,’ Sean said, turning away from the window.
‘Yes I am. I’ve hurt so many people. So I’ve stopped to take a real look at my life. Things you’ve said to me recently scared me. You made me think. It took me a couple of years to hear what you said, but finally I did. Don’t let me down, Sean. You made a promise —’
‘And I’ll keep it. If you want to get out of the Jets, I’ll help you, Mitch. I’ll be here tomorrow regardless of whatever happens. But you’ve got to do most of the work on your own. It won’t be easy —’
‘— but then again neither is life. I know.’
I’d never heard Sean say he loved me; well, as close as he came to saying it.
Sean was the perfect son. Now only three months off being officially announced school dux, he wanted to become a barrister. He dated whoever fell victim to his charm and was lead guitarist in his band. Sean was the squeakiest of all squeaky-clean kids. The boy-next-door to the boy-next-door. Sometimes it made me sick because I always believed people like him lived on TV shows. It was a long shadow for a guy with the talents of a legless cockroach to walk in. ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother Sean, Mitch?’ people would say. ‘Sean’s an outstanding young man.’ ‘Have you heard what Sean’s doing tonight?’ ‘Sean is just the coolest.’ Yer, and Sean could wipe his butt, hand it in as an assignment and get an A+. So what? I’d hated being Sean Jarrett’s kid brother sometimes. That’s why I ran with the Thunderjets. They treated me as me. But everything was different now.