by Scot Gardner
ALL FALL
DOWN
LARRY STARTED SHAVING in 2005, but nobody really noticed. He’d played with the five hairs that had sprouted on his chin until Kyle Elliot sat next to him in English and pointed out his obsession.
‘Leave your facial fluff alone, Larry. It’s annoying me just watching you.’
He was only going to shave his chin, but with the bathroom door closed and his face soapy, he just kept raking with his father’s razor – his cheeks, his neck, his upper lip – until his face was smooth and clean. No blood. A week later, he caught himself playing with the new stubble of a sideburn and was drawn to shave again. He bought his own shaver and nicked his chin the first time he used it, but still his parents didn’t notice.
Mal and Denise watched television in the same room and asked each other for the sauce at dinnertime, but that was it. They watched the ads calling for donations to the tsunami appeal but never opened their wallets. Denise went to bed late; Mal got up early. They both gave Larry jobs to do, and in his most frustrated moments, when he felt like their personal slave, Larry caught himself wondering why they were together at all. He wished he had the courage to tell them that if they were staying together for his benefit, they were wasting their time. He wished they’d let go and find some happiness elsewhere.
Guillermo was right about terrorist action against the countries involved in the Iraq War. A week before Larry’s fifteenth birthday, bombs shredded buses and trains in London. Seven hundred people were injured, fifty-two were killed and the Western world was back on high alert.
On Tuesday 12 July 2005 – one day before Larry’s fifteenth birthday – Mal and his work motorbike were run down by a bus carrying disabled people to a picnic at the weir. With a fractured ankle, a few scratches and mild concussion, Mal had his first ride in an ambulance.
Denise and a taxi were waiting when Larry got home from school.
‘Get in. Your father’s in hospital. He was knocked off his bike today.’
‘Is he okay?’
Denise nodded, but she seemed to be in pain.
Mal was propped up on three white pillows watching tele -vision. His left elbow was bandaged. A policeman sat in a chair beside the bed, his hat perched on one knee. As Larry and his mother arrived, the policeman donned his hat and left.
Larry noticed his father’s eyes. Something wasn’t right.
‘What did he want?’ Denise whispered.
‘Oh, just a statement about the accident.’
‘Are you okay?’ Larry asked.
Mal shrugged. There were tears in his eyes. ‘A few cuts and bruises. I’ll live.’
‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ Larry asked, and took his father’s hand.
Mal rubbed his eyes and shook his head. ‘They breath-alysed me. Took a blood sample.’
Denise tutted. ‘And?’
‘I was over.’
‘Over what? They what?’ Larry said.
Denise crossed her arms. ‘By much?’
‘Point one two.’
Denise threw up her hands. There were tears in her eyes. Her face grew tight. ‘How could you?’
‘How could you what?’ Larry asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mal said.
She shook her head, moved from foot to foot, released an exasperated sigh and strode from the room.
‘Denise, wait!’
‘Mum? What’s going on?’ Larry said, and yanked his father’s hand.
‘I still had alcohol in my blood.’
‘So?’
‘Nearly three times the legal limit. My bike’s a write-off.’
‘They can get another bike.’
‘I broke the law,’ Mal said through his teeth. ‘I won’t be allowed to ride.’ He snatched back his hand, ostensibly to scratch his nose. ‘If I can’t ride, I can’t work.’
Suddenly Larry was on the edge of the hole with his father. He could see what had made him cry. He understood why his mother had walked out. Work was a big thing in Mal’s life. Sometimes it was the biggest thing. Take it away and the hole left behind was huge. A hole big enough for Mal to fall in. A hole big enough to swallow their whole family.
‘It’s okay, Dad, we’ll sort it out. I’ll talk to Mum. You’ll find other work. It’ll be okay.’
Mal squeezed his son’s knuckles and forced a smile. Larry kissed his stubbly cheek and hugged his head.
‘You know the saddest thing?’ Mal said.
‘What?’
‘I hadn’t had a drink since last night.’
Denise had left the hospital. Mal had to stay in overnight for observation, so Larry ended up walking the half-hour to Condon Street by himself.
The house was empty. He called for his mother but there was no answer. She wasn’t in her room. He opened the refrigerator in search of something to fill his gut and heard activity. Banging and thumping. He traced the noise to the middle of the lounge and realised someone was under the house.
It was Denise, with a torch, dismantling Mal’s under-floor beer supply.
‘Mum?’
She turned the torch on her son, blinding him momentarily, and then turned to the task at hand.
‘There was just no evidence,’ she said, as if continuing a conversation. ‘No hard proof. No stacks of bottles or bins full of bottle tops. He only ever had one beer. There was only ever one dirty glass. Maybe he re-filled it twenty times a night but there was only ever one glass.’
The keg and the gas bottle were a tight fit in the fridge and after a short series of yanks trying to extract them, Denise slammed the door and shoved it with her shoulder. The whole thing rocked. The fridge toppled with a crunch, the bars on the back ringing like a fisted chord on a toy piano.
Denise dusted her hands.
The war had begun.
Larry didn’t know what to expect on the way home from school on his birthday. His mother had kissed his cheek and wished him many happy returns – whatever that meant – as she left for work that morning. Mal was due home from the hospital some time that day.
His parents were both in the lounge. Mal was on the couch with his bandaged foot stretched out in front of him. The air bristled.
Denise had bought fifteen presents for Larry’s fifteenth. Some of the gifts were bigger than others. A pair of camou-flage cargo pants only cost her ten dollars, while the Nintendo DS and four games came in a tad shy of three hundred. There was a DVD – Pirates of the Caribbean:The Curse of the Black Pearl. Larry held the box aloft triumphantly.
‘Good choice?’
‘I love this movie.’
‘You can keep it with . . . oh, my God.’
Her video shelf was empty. Her entire collection was gone.
She turned on her husband. ‘Where are my movies?’
‘What movies?’ Mal said, a little too quickly. A little too smugly.
She stormed through the house, opened the bins, found nothing. ‘Where are they?’ she snarled.
Mal shrugged, petulant.
Denise forced her way through the back door, heading for the garage.
‘Oh . . . my . . .’ she said.
Larry looked from the kitchen window. The back lawn was littered with DVDs and cases.
‘Here,’ Mal said, brandishing a small wrapped box. ‘Better have this before she gets back.’
Larry felt a lump in his throat. Had his father done that? The man was suddenly unrecognisable.
‘Here!’ Mal growled.
Larry took the gift and ripped the paper off.
A watch. A heavy sports watch, TAG Heuer. It was a thing of beauty.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Of course. It’s awesome.’
‘You’d better look after it,’ Mal said flatly. ‘Happy birthday.’
Larry retreated to his room, confused and shaken. He piled his gifts on his desk and climbed into his bunk. He listened, his heart beating in his neck, as his parents fought. They shouted and screamed until Larry could take no more. He donned a jacke
t, opened the flywire and slipped through his bedroom window. He ran into the night.
He found his rhythm and his breath chugged out in clouds of steam. He ran through the back streets of Villea and eventually down to the water and past the jetty. A group of young people crowded around a streetlight on the breakwater, and he crossed the road to avoid them. He could smell beer and cigarettes.
‘Larry?’ came a familiar girl’s voice. ‘Larry Rainbow? Is that you?’
Larry froze.
It was Jemma. She jogged over and wrapped her arms around him. She smelled of perfume and cigarette smoke. ‘I was just thinking about you. My god, it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?’
Larry hugged her back. Her breath was a heady cocktail of tobacco and something sweet and alcoholic.
‘I . . . I needed a run. What are you doing here?’
‘Just hanging out. God, it’s good to see you,’ she said again. ‘It’s your birthday!’
She hugged him and kissed his cheek. She recoiled and rubbed her lips. ‘Whoah, you need a shave, prickle-face.’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘Me? No,’ she said, and burped quietly into her hand. ‘Tipsy maybe, but not drunk.’
‘It’s Wednesday. What about school tomorrow?’
‘What about it? School’s not going anywhere.’
Strong arms grabbed Larry from behind, hoisted him into the air, and spun him around. His hands were pinned at his sides and he kicked and struggled.
‘Are you finished?’ he shouted at the darkness.
Jemma was laughing. ‘Put him down.’
Larry was dropped on his feet.
Tim Holland stooped and spoke right in his face. ‘He’s mine. Aren’t you, Larry?’
He playfully slapped Larry’s cheek before rejoining the others under the streetlight. There was a rumble of deep laughter and Larry felt like a child.
‘Do your parents know where you are?’ Larry asked.
Jemma nodded. ‘I’m with Tim. We’re at youth group. Come and meet the guys,’ she said, and hooked Larry’s elbow with her own.
Larry pulled free. ‘No. I . . . I really have to go.’
‘Okay, okay. Suit yourself.’ She dismissed him with the back of her hand, flicked her hair, and crossed the road.
Larry turned to run but tripped on something in the darkness. He came down hard on the concrete, skinning his left knee and the heels of both hands.
A dark form emerged from the shadows, laughing softly. Clinton Miller. ‘Woops. All fall down, Larry?’
The skin on Larry’s neck and arms prickled. He sprang to his feet. ‘What was that for?’
Clinton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s my mission in life to bring you down to earth. I’m the one who keeps it real.’
Larry rolled up the leg of his pants. Spots of blood smeared.
‘Larry Rainbow with his perfect house and perfect family.’
Larry’s hands balled as he straightened. His breath came fast.
‘Can’t have you getting a big head.’
Larry’s chest grew tight; fury banged at his ribcage.
‘Not-so-perfect dog,’ Clinton chuckled.
Larry exploded. He hit Clinton like a bus and rode him to the ground. The scarred boy’s head bounced on the concrete and his hands came up to protect his face. Larry tore at them and gouged and punched, ripped a fistful of hair from his head.
Clinton yowled but it only spurred Larry on.
‘Fight!’ somebody yelled.
There was nothing planned about Larry’s attack; he just let his rage loose, and some of the blows found their mark. The smack and crunch, the yielding flesh. History erupted from him like lava. If he’d had a golf club, he’d have caved Clinton’s head in. If he’d had his pocketknife, he’d have opened him up like a toadfi sh.
Clinton’s face was slick with his own blood. Larry flailed on.
‘Stop it!’ Jemma screamed. ‘Larry, stop!’
Larry wasn’t ready to stop. Clinton’s body had gone limp but Larry still thrashed at him.
Hands grabbed at his jacket and he was lifted up.
‘It’s over,’ Tim said. ‘Enough, Larry.’
He twisted free and turned on Tim, but the bigger boy stepped back, arms raised.
Larry’s heart raced and he puffed like a wolf.
Clinton was unrecognisable, squirming weakly on the pavement.
‘Clinton?’ Jemma squeaked. ‘You okay?’
There was no response.
‘Clinton?’
As the fire in Larry finally began to cool, the source of revenge cooled with it. What if he’d really hurt Clinton? What if he’d broken him? What if he died? His blood-spattered hands began to tremble.
Jemma touched Clinton’s shoulder and he flinched.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
She helped him sit up. He spat and inspected the blood on his fingers. He gingerly wiped his face. Jemma tried to help him stand but he shook her off and got shakily to his feet. He spat blood on the grass then spat at Larry.
‘You’re dead, Rainbow,’ he snarled. ‘You’re already dead.’
Larry watched him turn and leave. His threats had no substance, but Larry was already wishing he’d done things differently.
‘You’re an animal, Larry,’ Tim shouted. Larry couldn’t tell if his tone was one of respect or disgust. ‘You were going to kill him.’
Jemma’s hand was at her mouth and she stared at Larry as if she didn’t know him.
Larry looked at the blood on his knuckles and wanted to be somebody else. He had been going to kill Clinton. Perhaps not intentionally, but there had been a moment in the seething mess of the fight where he wouldn’t have cared if he did.
‘That’s been coming for years,’ Tim mumbled. ‘Ever since I can remember. Didn’t think you had it in you.’
Larry ran.
The house was quiet when he got home. Too quiet. He washed at the tap in the front garden. He snuck back in the window and lay on his bunk, shaking and still in his clothes. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. It was 10.42. He wished himself a happy birthday and the irony made him shake his head. He thought about the gifts on the desk below him. Somehow the stuff just didn’t matter. So much more had been taken away.
When he woke – shivering and thirsty – in the pre-dawn of the next day, his anger and confusion had matured into a fierce self-loathing. He slid off his bunk and filled a glass at the kitchen sink in the gloom. He felt the water chill all the way to his stomach, soaking the desert that had formed in there overnight.
‘Where did you get to?’
Water went down the wrong hole and Larry coughed and spluttered.
Mal had slept on the couch.
‘Nowhere. I went for a run.’
‘You’re allowed to use the door for those sorts of exits,’ Mal said. His words were sharp and clear, as if he’d been awake for hours.
‘Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you and . . .’
Mal dragged himself into a seated position with a hand on the back of the couch. ‘You missed Guillermo. He came around last night to wish you a happy birthday.’
Yes, Larry missed Guillermo. If he’d been home when Guillermo had visited, things would have turned out differently.
‘I’m sorry, Larry,’ Mal said. ‘Your mother and I are going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment.’
Larry nodded.
‘As if you hadn’t noticed.’
With his father acknowledging the battle, the thought of them breaking up suddenly slipped from being something Larry had wished for in his darkest moments to a very real thing that was just around the corner. A real thing he had no desire to know. He wished he’d been more careful with his wishes.
‘Are you separating?’ Larry asked.
Mal drew a breath, rubbed his face and sighed. ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere. I can’t speak for your mother.’
Larry made breakfast for them all in an
attempt to cover the shame that was churning in his guts. He assembled Denise’s on a tray – eggs, toast and juice – and was about to deliver it to her room when she appeared in the kitchen. She ate with them at the table, but reached for the sauce rather than ask for it to be passed. When the silence got too much, she grabbed the remote and let the news in. Another murder in a US jail – a sex offender bludgeoned with a claw hammer by another inmate. The violence made Larry’s eggs taste strange. He knew it wasn’t a matter of if Clinton would seek revenge, just a matter of when.
FRAYING
FABRIC
THE LOADED SILENCE in the Rainbow household lasted several months. Mal lost his licence. Lost both jobs. He slept on the couch while Hurricane Katrina killed more than a thousand people in America. He was there when Hurricane Rita gave the Gulf States another dose of mayhem scarcely a month later. His body healed and the bandages were rolled up and tucked in a bathroom drawer. He was camping on the couch in October when an earthquake in Kashmir killed more than eighty thousand and left four million people without homes.
Larry couldn’t bear to sit beside his father. Mal was a broken man and he wore his sloth like an unwashed shroud. Denise shifted her computer into her bedroom, and the door was closed more than it was open. She’d started taking odd shifts and she ate at odd times. Mal offered to make meals for Larry, but they were all variations on the theme of eggs and something from a can. Larry ate them most of the time and packed his own school lunches. When the night closed in and his father slumped in front of the television, Larry ran.
He could run faster and further under the cover of darkness. The shadows made him fierce; his pumping arms became punching fists. When it arrived – whatever it was he was waiting for – he’d be ready.
He wasn’t ready. It crept in sideways and caught him off guard, just after nine on a warm Friday evening. Larry heard sirens while he was running along the breakwater, but they didn’t register in his consciousness until he turned into Condon Street and saw the flashing blue-and-red lights in front of his house. All his bravado, all the cultured indifference to his mother and father, was stripped away in a single breath.