by Scott Monk
He wiped a tear off his face and ruffled my hair the way he used to.
We talked for hours. About all of it. The memories of Mum. The trip to Port. The picnics. The butterfly kisses before she tucked us into bed. When Ally was born. The birthday parties. And, of course, the bad times. The news. That terrible, rotten news. Running out into the street not wanting to believe it. The long rides to hospital. The smell of antiseptic. Pale, cold, white skin. And bawling as the casket was finally lowered into the ground.
Sean and I shared our pain.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sean closed the Bible and switched off the lamp before slipping into bed. In the windowed moonlight I saw Eric Clapton’s guitar, Jimi Hendrix’s hair, Bob Dylan’s shoulder, U2’s feet and the top half of Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. They were all his inspiration. My favourite music artists were rapsters, and bands that played techno and house. All were American and black. With so many people stuck up on our walls, I reckoned there were more posters than paint. It was dull and white underneath anyway. Or was it sky blue?
Below these, the harsh light of the TV danced under the crack of the doorway. My father and a couple of his wharfie mates were getting plastered in front of the idiot box. It seemed to be a nightly ritual now, sometimes at our place and sometimes at another guy’s house. All kids had to stay out of sight, even if it meant going to bed at seven-thirty. Seven-thirty! The guys would bag me out if they ever found out. Not that they ever did. I usually snuck out after Sean dozed off about ten o’clock. But bed times were not an issue to take up with the old man. You could only push him so far. I’d argued about curfews twice before and ended up with scars across my legs.
It was too early to sleep. I pillowed my hands under my head and stared at the ceiling. I felt safe for the first time in ages. The Thunderjets, including Barry Wheeler, were out of my life. And someone finally cared.
‘Mitch?’ Sean said.
‘Mmm,’ I grunted, chewing my fingernails. It was a bad habit, but as long as there were no chicks around I could munch away.
‘You didn’t mean what you said to Dad earlier, did you? About running away?’
Petoohie! The thumbnail landed in the bin. Two points! He scores!
‘Nope. Just trying to warn him to back off Allison and me, that’s all.’
‘Good.’
‘Hey, I wouldn’t skip through without you, Golden Boy.’
Sean grinned. Golden Boy was an old nickname. ‘You wouldn’t get far, kid. You’re still afraid of the dark.’
‘Am not. Just scared of seeing you in it.’
We shared a laugh and propped ourselves onto our elbows to face each other. ‘How steamed was the old man?’ I asked.
‘Really steamed.’
‘No kidding?’
‘No kidding. You had guts to stand up to him. Try it again though and you mightn’t have any. That’s one fight he’ll mull over for a long time. I think you better keep out of his way for the next few weeks.’
Petoohie! And he baskets one from the three-point line!
‘Who d’you think won?’
‘Mitch!’
‘Only joking.’
Silence set in as Sean searched for a topic of conversation and me a long enough fingernail to chew.
‘Hey, if you did run away, where would you go?’
That was easy. A place where time was dead. ‘The outback,’ I said. ‘Nobody hassles you for being lazy there. I’d throw my bags in the back of a Corvette and travel all round the country. Just me and a short-haired blonde.’
‘A Corvette and a girl. You must be dreaming.’
I threw my pillow straight at his head. He reached out, grabbed it and tucked it under his neck. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Hey! That’s mine!’
‘Finders keepers, losers weepers,’ he sang like a seven-year-old.
I jumped out of bed and tried to snatch the pillow back. He grabbed my arms. ‘What’s your problem?’ he grinned. ‘You looking for a fight?’
‘Yeah, if you don’t give me my pillow back.’
‘Nup. I told you it’s mine.’
‘I’ll hit you.’
‘And I’ll give you another black eye.’
‘As if.’
‘I’ll make it a double if you don’t believe me.’
‘C’mon.’
‘Oh yer?’
‘Yer.’
Sean punched me playfully. ‘You want to try?’
I punched him back. ‘Yer.’
He pushed me, starting the rumble. He got the better of me most of the time, but I kept trying to pin him to the ground. The rumble heated up until a voice shouted, ‘Belt up you kids! I’ll get Black Rex onto you!’
Sean and I quickly muzzled the noise. Black Rex was the infamous leather belt he used for “discipline”. It was a nastier version of its cousin the wooden spoon.
‘Belt up yourself, ya wino,’ I yelled quietly, but defiantly, at the door.
‘And don’t ya give me lip, sonny boy!’ Dad called back. As if to underline the statement, a bottle smashed outside our door, followed by more laughter.
‘It’s not worth it,’ Sean warned, seeing me get fired up for round two. ‘Just leave it be.’
‘I swear, Sean, when I’m eighteen I’m outta here. And I’m taking Ally with me.’
‘By the time you’re eighteen I hope to have an apartment by the beach you can both live at. Until then just try to put up with him.’
‘You never told me about that.’
‘Well, we haven’t told each other a lot of things. But that’s changing.’
I knew what he meant. I smiled. ‘This dream of yours better happen soon. I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.’
‘What’s wrong, Mitch? You’ve been on Dad’s back for the past couple of months.’
‘It’s the grog. I hate it when he drinks.’
‘He’s with his friends. They’re just having fun.’
I shook my head. ‘Getting wasted isn’t my kind of fun, Sean.’
If I’d said that three, two weeks, even one week ago, I would’ve been kidding myself. And Sean picked up the irony.
‘That’s a good one coming from you,’ he said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You should be the last person giving lectures about getting wasted.’
‘I never got wasted.’
‘Mitch, don’t lie to me.’ The look on his face said he meant it.
‘So I smoked some dope and drank a lot. That’s behind me now. I’ve changed.’
‘You swear?’
‘What’s with this swearing business?’
‘You swear?’ he repeated, handing me the Bible.
‘I swear,’ I said, placing my hand on it. This felt like court.
‘Don’t kid me around, Mitch. Your word’s your honour.’
‘Yer, I know. Trust me, Sean. It has to be both ways.’
We silently reflected on this for a while.
‘D’you think less of me cause I did smoke dope?’
‘The truth?’
‘Yer, the truth.’
‘Yes. I hated you using. I couldn’t understand why you had to smoke it. There are plenty of other ways to fool around. Hanging with your friends for instance.’
‘You know all my friends are crew. I had to smoke it to be one of the gang.’
‘You don’t have to do anything but be yourself. Think for yourself, Mitch. It’ll save you a lot of hassles.’
Great, Sean-the-parent was lecturing me again.
‘You understand?’ he asked.
‘Yer, I understand.’
I got up to return to my bed, but Sean grabbed my arm. ‘Keep clean, Mitch. Don’t mess with your mind. You only get one.’
Sean gave me back my pillow. I thumped him on the shoulder one last time then walked back and laid on my bed.
‘You don’t like Dad drinking, okay? And I reckon he’d hate it if he found out you were smoking dope.’
>
I breathed out and rolled over. What Sean said about drugs was probably right. They’d done more harm than good in the long run. I didn’t want to hear the stuff about Dad though. There was no love lost between me and him. We weren’t the perfect family like on TV: a father, mother, two kids (one son, one daughter), and a dog named Spot living in a two-storey suburban house with a well-kept garden. And we definitely didn’t always settle the problem at the end and say ‘I’m sorry’. TV, man. No wonder so many families ended screwed up. Everyone tried to be the Brady Bunch.
‘Just you wait, kid. Dad’ll come through when you least expect it.’ That was the last thing Sean said before falling asleep.
Forty minutes later, I couldn’t get to sleep. After being knocked unconscious and sleeping most of the pain off early in the afternoon, my body had had enough rest. So I fidgeted. I rolled over. I swapped the hot side of the pillow for the cold. I stared at the stars. I counted sheep. Millions of sheep. And I shot sheep when they didn’t help me one bit. I pulled the sheets over my head. I moved to the other end of the bed. I closed every part of my mind except the one that kept whispering, ‘You’re awake’. And still I couldn’t sleep.
Bored, I picked up the phone from the bedside table. Who could I call? Wheeler? No! Peeper? Marc? Flash Jack? No way. It was Thursday night. They’d be hanging down at the supermarkets still, hassling late-night shoppers and check-out chicks. Who else? There was Sarah-Jane, my part-time girlfriend. But her last words puzzled me: ‘You sleazy pig!’ wasn’t usually found on Valentine’s Day cards. It didn’t matter. I gave her a call anyway.
‘I’m not talking to you, you two-timing jerk! Don’t ring me again!’
Slam!
Ah. The same old Sarah-Jane. She still loved me.
She’d forget about catching me sleazing onto Liz Mulder at her sixteenth birthday party eventually.
I liked ringing up people. So I dialled any numbers I could think of. A lady, in her fifties I guess, answered. I asked if a Mr Tross was there. An Albert Tross. She hung up.
By the time I phoned the entire population of Sydney asking for Miss N. Link, Sandy Beach, Ima Hogg and someone to pay for the phone bill, I got tired of my little game. And I was still awake. I got an ice pack for my cheek (the old man was unconscious by now), then I dialled a local number and asked for Elias Batrouney.
‘Just one moment, Mitchell,’ Mrs Batrouney said. She put the phone down and hollered, ‘Elias, that criminal friend of yours is on the line.’ It’s amazing how many people think the caller can’t hear them talking.
‘Er, hello? Mitch?’
I hunted around for a cigarette. I needed a cigarette. If Sean hadn’t tossed the packet in the garbage bin on the way home I’d be happily smoking, not holding a telephone and trying desperately to think why I called in the first place. My brother was an anti-smoker. He warned me he’d punch me every time I lit up or came home smelling of tobacco from now on. Great therapy! Hadn’t he heard of smokers’ anonymous organisations?
‘Yer g’day, Elias. How’s it going?’
‘Er, fine,’ he answered. Was that like fine as in the weather or fine like what-do-you-want-me-for-you-criminal?
‘I just rang to say thanks and all for helping me out today. I probably would’ve bled to death if you didn’t come along.’
‘Probably,’ he said. So it was what-do-you-want-me-for-you-criminal. ‘I saw you lying in that lot, told Mum and brought you inside. No big deal.’
‘Well, I think it’s a big deal. I want to pay you back. Is there anything you need? Cash? Booze? Drugs? Muscle-power?’
‘I don’t want anything from you.’
I heard another phone being picked up. Probably the one in his parents’ bedroom. I toyed with the idea of arranging a drug swap but let it slide. Elias was a good kid. He didn’t want trouble. Sure, I swore his parents were straight off Family Feud but that wasn’t a good enough reason to dump on the guy. Pimples, grades, chicks and sucking up to the teachers bugged him enough without me making it worse.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Okay, then I’ll see you at school.’
‘Yer, right,’ he said and hung up.
Interesting. He had more guts over the phone.
Ringing to say thanks seemed a trivial reason to Elias for interrupting his hip-happening life of studying algebra. I guess the real reason I rang was to say ‘Hey, I’m sorry for ditching you when we reached high school. I’m a jerk. Forgive me.’ But it didn’t come out that way. It end up being a nerd versus a bomber.
Elias had always been a bookworm; the quiet Lebanese kid down the road who loved to read. In The Tower Club he’d been in charge of Intelligence Operations whenever we played armies because he was the smartest. (The positions of power such as Commander-in-Chief were left to stronger members like Joe Saad and me.) Keeping to himself most of the time, Elias only spoke when someone encouraged him to (or stole his glasses). And that someone was usually Joe, his best mate. Apart from that there wasn’t a lot you could say about him. He would go through life working in a cushy little job, marry a cushy little wife and bring up 2.4 cushy little children. No risks. No hiccups. Just like on TV.
But I didn’t care about Elias now. I’d thanked him for helping me out. He didn’t need anything. He just wanted to be left alone. My more immediate concern was falling asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
School on Friday was always a bludge. The teachers were tired, the students were tired and the lessons tiresome. Everyone just sat around watching the clock. Wheeler made it “interesting” though. He caused trouble for me in the morning by spreading a rumour I was gay. A couple of the Jets whistled and shouted ‘Fag!’ as I walked across the quad but no one believed it. I should’ve punched him one for saying that. Instead I left him alone, sticking to myself and staying out of sight until the end of the day. I knew I’d have to face him eventually. But that was in the future. I had to sort out my life first and figure out what I wanted to do.
Rival colour gangs might eventually cause a problem too, I realised. The Bayside Barbarians, Redfern Redbloods and Bankstown Brawlers traditionally hated anyone associated with the Marrickville Thunderjets. Our gang stole young guys from their ranks by offering free booze, drugs and easy women. The Thunderjets numbered around thirty-five bombers. Not a lot, but enough. Most were school kids who enjoyed playing basketball after school. However, when one of us — or should I now say them — got into a rumble the thirty-four others hunted down the perp and gave him what-for.
I saw the whole gang thing as stupid now. It was just a bunch of kids wanting to play real-life cops and robbers. There were some really great guys in the gang, but usually the meanest, toughest, most heartless kids carrying grudges against society led it. One such kid used to be me.
Being a loner has its benefits sometimes. Which I was come Friday night. You didn’t have to answer to anyone and you could do whatever you liked. Grab a movie. Lie under the stars. Eat a bag of hot chips to yourself. Or sit outside that blonde’s house on the corner and watch her get ready for bed. Which I didn’t want to do, but at least I had the choice.
Walking by myself down Renwick Street and humming one of The Heart Pirates’ songs, I barely noticed the car trailing me. It was an old Kingswood, copper brown and badly in need of a new windscreen. No one I knew drove a Kingswood. None of my friends at least. The car’s headlights slowly crawled along the road as its tyres spat gravel. If it was gang trouble I’d be in hospital, the victim of a hit-and-run “accident”.
The car pulled up beside me and the driver called out, ‘Hey Mitch, what’s going down?’
‘I got nothing to say to you, Wheeler,’ I said, ignoring his eyes.
‘You’re still sore about losing, aren’t you?’
Sure, I was angry about losing. But I was more angry about him jumping me at the dirt lot. Only cowards attacked a guy from behind.
I kept walking.
‘C’mon, Mi
tch. Hold on a minute. All I want to do is talk. We’re friends remember. We’ve been friends since the second grade.’
There he went again.
‘What d’you want?’ I said, stopping. I wanted him to get this over with.
‘Get in the car. I don’t want to say this in the open.’
The open, huh? Napoleon was scared of a few busybodies peeping out the window with phones in hand and fingers poised over 0-0-0?
‘What’s so secret that you can’t tell me out here?’
‘Nothing. Just give me a minute, would you?’
Sorry I’d talked to him in the first place, I opened the passenger door with the sleeve of my jacket but stayed outside. The car was hot. And not because of the engine. A huge V8 Aussie monster, it was common enough to be missed by a couple of traffic cops on their donut break. But not its owner come morning. I looked at his eyes. They were clear. He’d forgotten to get stoned before doing the job. Straight, he would’ve done it cleanly and hopefully no pigs would be grunting after him.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘It’s my neighbour’s. He let me borrow it for the night.’
I didn’t budge.
‘Look, here’s a photo of him, me and the car. See?’
Okay, so it was his friend’s. But I still didn’t want to sit inside. Wheeler was only fifteen and didn’t have his licence. Cops had a bad habit of hassling teenage drivers, tailing them for miles or pulling them over if they were in an expensive car. Sometimes they got lucky and found one without a licence.
‘Just tell me what you want, Wheeler.’
‘I’ve come to make peace. It’s stupid we’re fighting. Mates should never do that.’
Yer, real mates shouldn’t.
‘You were the one who hit me. From behind, right?’
‘Anything to get to the top,’ he shrugged. ‘You did it too. Kicked out Cougar.’
‘Yer, but he set his mates onto me first. Cougar thought I was down and walked away. That was the last mistake he made for the Thunderjets.’
‘You left him in hospital.’