by Scott Monk
No sweat, but a lot of blood by the looks of it.
‘Yer, and we would have been outta there sooner if you punched harder,’ Wheeler said. ‘You fight like a girl, Peeper.’
‘The guy was a brick wall. You left him yourself —’
‘Forget it! I’m sick of hearing about it. Just be glad we lost the pigs. We were nearly goners for a second. Lucky I found that back window open.’
The back window. My escape route. I hope I didn’t drop any evidence like my wallet or keys. For all I knew Wheeler might’ve been a fan of Murder She Wrote or Columbo and found a clue to use against me. Gang justice for cowards and traitors was ugly.
‘Let’s just go home,’ Flash Jack said.
‘Yer, that’s a good idea. The fun’s finished here anyway.’
‘Hey, Barry,’ said Marc, ‘what happened to the car?’
Wheeler stopped. Then yelled, ‘Where’s my car?!’
He danced around repeating the same thing, kicking parking meters and swearing violently. Me, I had to smother a laugh with a cough to stop giving myself away. And it was a loud cough at that.
Finally, Wheeler spun around and stabbed a finger at me. ‘You! Where’s my car? What have you done with my car?’
‘The cops towed it away.’
‘Towed it away? And you sit there, looking smug, forgetting to tell me about it? You have to be the biggest moron I know.’
I always tried my best.
‘Here’s the ticket,’ I offered, handing it to him.
Wheeler snatched the ticket away and read it twice. ‘Parking in a NO STANDING zone? What’s this rubbish?’
‘There’s the sign,’ I pointed, not caring if Wheeler’s tantrum focused itself on me again. Tonight would be the excuse he’d use to ditch me forever as a friend. And that was what I wanted more than anything.
‘It says NO STANDING, not NO PARKING.’
‘That’s what it means, Wheeler. NO STANDING is NO PARKING. What did you think it meant? You’d get arrested for standing here on two feet for an hour?’
‘Watch it, Jarrett. Stop smart-mouthing me. I’m not happy with you tonight. You didn’t want to come, you refused to smoke a joint, you treated the girl I chose for you like she was invisible and then you ditched your friends in the middle of a fight.’
‘I didn’t ditch you. I was just busy making out.’
‘Busy making out? You pick a girl over your friends? We’re a gang, Jarrett. Gangs are more important than chicks, cars, booze and drugs. We swear a blood oath, Jarrett. We stick by each other. That’s the Thunderjets’ motto. It’s a contract for life. Once you’re in, you’re in for good.’
‘I don’t belong to the gang, Wheeler.’
‘Yes you do because you’re nothing without the gang, Jarrett. You’re unprotected. You’re one of the people who go to bed each night and pray, “Please, please don’t let the bogeyman bite tonight.” Gangs give you everything you need, man. Gangs are power. Gangs are the bogeyman. There’s lots of enemies out there, Jarrett. And you’ve got heaps.’
‘The only enemy I’ve got is you, Wheeler. You cause more trouble for us than anybody I know. How many times have we rescued you, man? Hey? How many times have you started a fight because your ego was hurt by some big-mouth? D’you want to keep on living like that? Rumbling and robbing people? There’s gonna be a point in your life when you’re gonna say, “I want out”. Cause if you don’t get out sooner than later, man, one of your enemies is gonna come along and leave you a nobody in a wheelchair.’
‘Nobody? You want nobody? I’ll give you nobody!’
Wheeler lunged at me but Marc caught his fist and pinned both his arms behind his back. He started bucking against the big guy to make him let go but Marc just squeezed harder. ‘Cool it, Barry. Mitch isn’t thinking straight,’ he said.
‘Let go of me, man. The guy’s a traitor. He’s dishonouring our colours.’
‘You didn’t mean what you said, did you, Mitch?’ Peeper asked.
‘Times change, Peep. I can’t keep on fighting for the rest of my life. There are more important things.’
‘Like what?’
‘My family. A job. I want a job, Peeper, after I leave school. You can’t get one from behind bars.’
‘No one here’s going to jail, Mitch,’ Flash Jack said.
‘Or die, right? One day some kid is gonna turn psycho and kill people. You ever thought about that? There was a drive-by shooting a couple of months ago at a dance, remember?’
‘But that wasn’t our gang, man. We’re Thunderjets. Nobody’s gonna mess with us.’
‘Oh no? How bout Santos’s party over in Campsie last year?’
‘That wasn’t our fault,’ Peeper protested.
‘That’s not what that drunk chick said. She wanted to knock you flat cause you told her she was ugly. You should’ve known she’d tell her boyfriend and he’d phone his gang.’
‘Yer, but we beat them in the end.’
‘You mean we got outta there just before that second car load of guys arrived.’
‘What are you trying to say, Mitch?’ Marc seemed disturbed by the memories.
‘That’s LA or the Bronx, man, not Sydney. I’m getting out now before we make this city like that. Before I get killed.’
‘We won’t get killed. We’re immortal. COLOURS-ARE-IMMORTAL.’
‘How, Jack? Does that fancy suit of yours have a big yellow “S” on it and a red cape tucked round the back?’
‘C’mon, Mitch. Don’t mess us around. We’re your mates.’
‘I know that. But I don’t have to wear colours to prove it. If you’re my friend you’ll respect me wanting out.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Wheeler warned, renewing his struggle against Marc. ‘He’s a coward. A guy going nowhere. If you listen to him you’ll go nowhere too.’
‘Shut up, Wheeler,’ Marc said. ‘Mitch was leader a long time before you.’
Wheeler’s face turned red. ‘Let go of me.’
‘Are you ready to make peace?’ Marc asked.
‘Let me go and find out.’
‘If you hit Mitch, you’ll be going home in an ambulance. Got that?’
To say the scene was weird was an understatement. The big guy was a grizzly bear when he wanted to be but a cub deep down inside. He was still loyal to me even though I’d never earned it. Marc was always the big dolt the Jets relied on if they needed muscle. Apparently Wheeler’s leadership still wasn’t that certain. And my attack in the dirt lot was a bad start to what could be the shortest leadership in bomber history.
‘Okay, okay,’ Wheeler said as Marc let him go. He pulled at his collar and straightened his jacket.
‘Peace,’ I said, holding out my hand.
He looked at it. He knew that I’d never lost the leadership. You didn’t get power by just thumping someone in a fight. Power was about respect and honour and smarts. Wheeler had none of these. He only had fists. And the truth burnt him up.
He rejected my handshake and walked away, cursing.
‘C’mon,’ I said to the guys. ‘We’ll catch a train home. The night’s finished.’
So was my time with the Thunderjets.
The silver train clicketty-clacked as it pulled into Central Station with a hiss. People jumped off laughing as the overhead speakers announced the names of the next stations. A guy and his girlfriend scurried on board just as the doors were about to close. Clear, a guard’s whistle blew and the train’s horn blared back.
Clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack —
Another sound disturbed the quiet of the train station. Rusty wheels squealed as a homeless man pushed his worldly possessions in a loaded trolley past the platforms through a vacant lot. He was dressed in red rags and could only shuffle a few metres at a time. He’d stop at a bin and look for a bottle, can or a half-eaten hot dog. Anything to add to his collection or his stomach.
Then the Trolley Man found the doll. Hidden under a stack of oily rags
, the toy smiled back at the old Aborigine as he woke her from her bed. He turned the doll over in his twisted hands, then back, noting her once orange dress. She was black, but with a white girl’s face. It might’ve been some kid’s best friend, until her parents told her to throw it away. Then somehow it came to be here, unloved and alone just like the Trolley Man.
‘What did he say?’ I asked Flash Jack, trying to refuse the cigarette I desperately wanted.
‘Zip. I reckon Wheeler’s planning revenge though. You can tell. He hasn’t looked this angry since we bagged him about falling in love with that cross-dresser.’
We grinned and Flash Jack lit up. Lady Nicotine called me with her seductive voice, but I turned away and watched the birds. Four seagulls played chicken with oncoming trains while a mynah searched for grubs in the yellow grass. Nope, that wasn’t working. I wanted a smoke.
‘How are you going to handle him, Mitch?’ Marc pointed at Wheeler.
I glanced at the farthest platform. Sitting on its edge, Wheeler spat green caterpillars of phlegm into an oil puddle while watching the Trolley Man.
‘I don’t know. What would you guys do?’
‘Me,’ Flash Jack said, ‘I’d stay low till everything chilled out.’
‘Me too,’ Marc agreed.
‘I’m not staying out of his way. He can stay outta mine,’ I said loud enough for Wheeler to hear. ‘I ain’t afraid.’
And that was the truth. The best way to make Napoleon retreat was to confront the guy and give him a mental shove. There was no way I was going to run away from him any more.
‘C’mon,’ Peeper said, pulling on his Malcolm X beanie. ‘This train’s a no-show. Let’s get the bus.’
‘In a minute. I want to buy some gum.’
‘Ar, that’s the nicotine talking,’ Flash Jack grinned. ‘It’s saying: Gimme a smoke, Mitch. Gimme a smoke …’
Marc shook his head. ‘Mitch a non-smoker? This is the guy who smoked a carton a day, not a packet.’
‘What changed your mind, Mitch?’ Flash Jack leaned against a post.
‘I read an article that said smoking can lead to impotence.’ Thumbing the chocolate machine, I waited until it finished humming and a metal claw dropped the spearmint into the tray.
It wasn’t the only thing that dropped. Two of the guys’ jaws bounced on the ground.
‘What’s impotence?’ Marc asked.
‘Brewer’s droop, you mule.’ Flash Jack punched him.
Marc frowned. ‘What’s brewer’s droop?’
‘Oh man,’ the guys whined. Sex education wasn’t Marc’s strong point. Then again, neither was education generally.
‘You can’t get it up,’ Peeper explained through clenched teeth.
‘It?’
Peeper groaned, while the rest of us laughed.
‘Oh, that “it”!’ Marc said. ‘You can’t? Why wasn’t I told?’
‘Cigarette companies love pretty pictures,’ I called back. ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you and all that jazz.’
‘Where’s a phone book?’ Marc demanded. ‘Give me the number for QUIT.’
We all laughed and I threw back a couple of Mars Bars for the guys to share. It felt like old times.
When I got back, Flash Jack asked, ‘Hey, can anybody see Barry?’
And, as if on cue, a scream came from the nearby empty lot. Wheeler!
Clicketty-clack!
Through the chain link fence we watched Wheeler with a corrupt grin on his face circle, tease and intimidate the Trolley Man. The old Aborigine hadn’t done anything, but Wheeler was coaxing him to do something. ‘Is that a dare?’ Wheeler responded to Trolley Man’s feeble threat. ‘Think you’re tough enough to stop me?’ He pushed the dero to the ground and laughed. By the look on his face, the action left him feeling powerful. But no one had lived on the streets longer than this old guy. He fought back.
‘Get away from me. I ain’t got nothing you want.’
‘What’s in the trolley, Trolley Man? I heard you’ve gotta few bucks stashed away in that marble bag you keep and I want it, okay? Hand it over.’
‘No! I ain’t got any money.’
‘No? No? That’s the wrong answer, old man. There’s a price for the wrong answer, y’know.’
A knife popped from Wheeler’s fist.
‘Leave him alone!’ I shouted, jumping down onto the tracks and starting to run. clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack —
‘C’mon, old man, the money! What else you got?’
Wheeler shoved the old man away and tipped his life savings onto the gravel. Blankets, old bottles, toys, stones, bags, hubcaps, aluminium cans and newspapers spilled everywhere, deafening the old man’s useless protests. Rummaging through the mess, Wheeler’s frustration grew as he found nothing worth stealing. His fingers tightened around the knife. clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack —
Peeper, Marc and Flash Jack stood still. They didn’t know what to do. Stoned and out of control, Wheeler was trying to prove he was number one again.
‘Where’s the cash, old man? Hand it over!’ clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack —
‘Let go of him!’ I yelled. ‘He hasn’t done anything!’
‘Where is it!’ clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack —
‘Let go of me!’
‘Stop struggling or I’ll cut you, man.’ clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack—
‘Help! Someone help!’
‘Got it, old man.’
Clicketty-clack! Clicketty-clack! Clicketty-clack!
‘No, that’s mine! That’s —’
‘I warned you!’
CLICKETTY-CLACK! CLICKETTY-CLACK! CLICKETTY-CLACK!
The Trolley Man screamed.
The train blinded me.
BLURNNNT! BLURNNNT!
Clicketty-clack! Clicketty-clack! Clicketty-clack!
Then silence.
— clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack —
‘He’s killed him!’ Marc yelled.
I just kept running. The Trolley Man wasn’t dead but close to it. Wheeler stood over him, bloody knife in hand, and yelled, ‘You’re one of us again, Jarrett! It’s sworn in blood! This is the new blood oath between you and me! You better get outta here if you don’t want to get caught for this Abo’s murder!’
The fool! He wanted to make me as guilty as him. If the cops busted Wheeler, they’d take me in too.
He escaped before I got to him. Jumping over the fence, he disappeared behind a signal shed.
Peeper, Marc and Flash Jack ran for their lives too. Cowards! I cursed. A man was dying. He needed help. Didn’t they care?
Trolley Man lay at my feet, bleeding too much blood. I panicked. The guy was about to die. I wanted to ask someone what to do. A doctor, Sean; but no help arrived. Not even from my friends. Alone, I stood there helpless. What should I do? Run too? If I stayed I’d be an accessory. If I left, the old guy’s death would be my fault. Either way my life was finished.
‘Help me,’ he whispered, trying to stop the blood with his fingers. ‘Help —’
Looking at his face, I saw mine. I saw Mitchell Jarrett a month ago, slowly drifting as the ambulance sirens howled in the distance. A knife poked from my belly and warm blood pooled under my back. A Bayside Barbarian mistook me for someone else and jumped me. Some mistake — he nearly killed me!
Watching Trolley Man slowly dying, I finally knew what to do.
Pressing down on the wound with a rag I ripped from his coat, I lied to him that everything was all right. His wounds were bad, slashed down his chest, but his spirit was fighting back. I used the words an ambulance officer used on me. Her sweet voice dulled my pain and hopefully the same words would work with him too.
‘Call an ambulance somebody!’ I yelled back at the platform. The several witnesses just stared at us as if watching a movie. ‘Call an ambulance now!’
The old man breathed hard and fast. ‘Relax, man. Relax!�
�� I said. ‘C’mon, Trolley Man. Fight with me. You’re gonna make it. You’re gonna make it.’
I hoped.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mitch, if you’re protecting your friends —’
‘I’m not protecting my friends. I told you I didn’t see who did it.’
‘Several witnesses said you spoke to the attacker.’ The detective was a beefy, sweaty-skinned man in his forties.
‘So?’
‘So that means you know him. Am I right?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Don’t think you can sit there in that seat and act innocent, kid. We’ve pulled your file and found a few interesting facts about you.’
‘Like what?’
‘You leading the Marrickville Thunderjets for a start.’
‘That’s in the past. I left them.’
‘That’s not the word on the street.’
‘Then your sources are wrong. Me and the Jets are through.’
‘Okay, let’s have a look at what else you’ve been involved in, shall we?’
‘Save your time. I’ve never been convicted in my life.’
‘You’ve been lucky,’ the detective growled. And he was right.
‘Look, I saved the guy’s life. What did I do wrong?’
‘The victim you call Trolley Man is in a stable but serious condition. He’s not saved yet.’
‘I didn’t knife him. I keep on telling you that. I did not do it.’
‘Look, kid —’
‘I’m not a kid. My name’s Mitch. Mitchell Jarrett.’
The detective breathed long and hard and stared straight at me.
‘Okay, Mitchell Jarrett, we’ll start from the top again and until you tell us who attacked Trolley Man you’re not leaving this building, got it? Now, how did you come to be at Central Station and who —’
A knock saved me.
‘Sorry, Detective,’ a young Aboriginal constable said. ‘Mitchell’s father and brother are here to collect him if he has permission to leave.’
The detective leaned back in his chair and ran his hand down his chin. Sighing deeply, he threw his pen across the table then said, ‘Sure. Sure. He’s free. For now.’ I stood up and started to leave when the detective added, ‘Kid, you listen to me. If I find you’re responsible for this stabbing, you’re going under. Do you understand that? No deals. No crying to the magistrate. It’s jail. This is serious. A man nearly died tonight, and he still might. If I was you at the moment I’d be considering joining the church choir until I was ninety years old. Got that?’