The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  It was a beautiful evening and one wasted alone. Cool breezes skimmed off the ocean and swayed the dune grasses under a half-moon. Among them, he lay, one hand pillowing his head, the other tracing his chest. The rhythm of the sea was only broken by the party’s music and the occasional howl of overexcited men. He was tempted to join them, but he wanted to be alone to dream. He had another girl on his mind that night and one he definitely liked.

  Zara.

  He wished desperately that she could be with him right then. Both of them embraced. Fingers drawing on warm skin. Blonde hair on his shoulders. Spearmint. Butterfly kisses. Heat —

  He’d only been asleep for a short time when torchlight jabbed into his face. He thought it was the ranger again until two hands grabbed him and hauled him up. Instantly, he smelt beer.

  ‘What have you done with it?!’

  ‘Wh —?’

  ‘Where are my credit cards, you thief!’

  The drunk shook Dean hard and threw him to the side. He landed on his shoulder and felt it jar. Two voices — male and female — yelled further down the beach. Reinforcements! He quickly got to his feet as the drunk lunged but tripped.

  ‘No you don’t! Get back here!’

  But he fled into the scrub.

  Chapter 12

  The ute rocked side-to-side as it accelerated from the Wallace property along a grooved orange road. Purple fields of Salvation Jane and one-family towns slipped behind in a tumbling cloud of brown grasshoppers as it headed for Truro. Chugging up a hill, a cattle truck grew in the reflection of the General’s silver sunglasses and forced her to change gears. The engine whined with the extra work, but she tamed it with a kick of speed. Dean sagged against the passenger door, exhausted but grateful for the ride home. With every bump, Zara’s left knee knocked his right.

  ‘See you later?’ he asked.

  ‘Once she’s finished her chores,’ the General answered for her, choking the hand brake outside the homestead.

  But he wasn’t going to wait. He rushed up to his quarters, collected Old Clive’s guitar and ran to the stables. It was a simple building — designed to hold only two horses at a time — with a feeding area and stretched trough outside. A ladder climbed up to a hayloft and cracked saddles hung from the walls. The air smelt of stale straw, worked leather, dry manure and bloated sacks of grain. Perfect. He opened the doors, returned to the feeding area then sat, legs dangling into the empty creek. Resting the guitar on his lap, he warmed up with a set of scales and waited for an audience.

  Maybe it was the smell of hay or the location, but the initial tapping of his fingers on the sounding board reminded him of clomping horses. Great big white Andalusians with their arrogant beauty and chess-piece necks. Once again, he melded into his music and forgot his surroundings. But a heavy shove to the back almost knocked him into the creek.

  ‘Jiffy!’

  A tangle of exposed tree roots saved him from the two-metre slide. Braced on top of them, he placed the guitar behind him then accepted a hand-up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ a girl apologised, standing beside a sorrel horse. ‘He’s never done that before.’

  ‘Must be a heavy metal fan,’ he said, swiping his seat and back.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so.’

  ‘How about your guitar?’

  He flipped it over. He’d heard the indignant thummm too. ‘Just a bit of dirt. Nothing serious.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I feel so bad. I never meant for him to get that close. He’s always been curious —’

  ‘Really, it’s not a drama. You gave me a fright, that’s all.’

  He got his first full look at the girl. He knew her. The teenage filmmaker from the barbecue.

  ‘It’s Michelle, right?’

  ‘And you’re Dean?’

  He nodded, then faced his attacker. ‘Not big on my music, eh — Jiffy?’ He reached out to pat him. He didn’t know why. Maybe to make peace. It was such a big animal; one he’d always been frightened of. The horse sensed his fear, stepped back and lowered its head with another bruff. Gingerly, he stroked the sinewy neck, smiled quickly and moved away. ‘Strange name.’

  She half-grinned. ‘We bought him when I was eight. Every time I’d go riding, I’d tell Mum and Dad that I’d be back on a jiffy, instead of —’

  ‘— in a jiffy.’

  ‘The name stuck, didn’t it, old fella?’

  ‘He’s yours?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I thought he must have been Zara’s.’

  ‘No, all the horses are mine. We’ve got an agistment agreement with the Kaeslers.’

  ‘Agistment?’

  ‘It’s like renting. We don’t own our farm any more, but we need a place for them to stay. Zara feeds them when I can’t get over here myself.’

  ‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’

  ‘Zara? She’s inside with our parents. They’re having a meeting.’

  ‘Anything important?’

  ‘Contracts, sale prices — boring stuff.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They both stood there, wondering what to say. ‘Well, I probably should join them,’ she said. ‘I’ll give the old boy here a quick feed then go.’

  She wheeled the horse round and led him to the stables. He went back to his playing. Still no Zara. But he could wait. Sitting again, he chose a solea. Its loneliness drifted on the afternoon light. But when the song finished, he discovered he still had an eavesdropper. Michelle stood by the troughs, busying herself once she knew she’d been spotted.

  ‘Made any more films?’ he said.

  The question sounded forced, he realised, but she warmed to the interest.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve just finished editing the one from the barbecue.’

  ‘Any good?’

  She shrugged. ‘It won’t win an Oscar.’

  ‘You cut out the bit where we were singing, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, that was one of the best bits.’

  ‘Only if you turn down the volume.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll have to show it to you the next time we have a movie night.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Zara and I. We get together, stuff our faces and watch all the home movies we’ve made.’

  ‘Zara as well?’

  ‘Especially Zara. You can’t keep her away from the camera. You should see this ninja one where we’ve deliberately put a bad dub over it. It just cracks everyone up.’

  A film night? That sounded cool.

  ‘So how do you know Zara?’ he said.

  ‘We go to school together. She’s my best friend.’

  ‘Known her long?’

  ‘Around here, you know everyone your whole life.’

  ‘So you both met at, like, kindergarten?’

  ‘No, we used to race PeeWees.’

  ‘As in the bird?’

  She laughed. ‘No, PeeWees as in the mini-bikes. We used to compete in the under-nines motocross together. The organisers stopped holding mixed races because of us. We kept beating all the boys.’

  ‘That explains the way she rides.’

  ‘She loves it. She still enters a few meets around the district. Except she signs under Hayden’s name and hides her hair under her helmet.’

  ‘So how does she go?’

  ‘A few fourths and a second. They disqualify her every time though.’

  ‘Because she’s a girl?’

  ‘That, and because she lied about her name.’

  He snorted. Amazing. Then he went on playing.

  After pouring out the feed, she rubbed Jiffy on the flank then approached Dean. He waited until she stood beside him to look up.

  ‘So do you only play —’

  ‘Flamenco.’

  ‘— flamenco — or can you play rock as well?’

  ‘All the time. If I’ve heard it, I can play it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  It was an easy question, but a
hard one to answer. Everyone had different tastes. It took a few moments, but he picked the perfect song for her: the Beatles’ classic “Michelle”.

  The choice was a winner. With a musician’s eye — pretending to focus on the frets while secretly watching — he could tell she was completely rapt. He half-smiled. No doubt it was the same satisfaction his old man felt when he played to him.

  The last note faded into her clapping.

  ‘Excuse my lousy French,’ he apologised, self-conscious that he was no longer hidden by the music. ‘I don’t think Lennon and McCartney wrote Sunday morning toys beyond the sun.’

  ‘Only if you play it backwards.’

  ‘Do you speak French?’

  She squatted. ‘No. The song — it’s one of my favourites. When I was younger, Dad used to sing it to me after he tucked me into bed. I haven’t heard it for ages. Thank you.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Do you know anything else?’

  ‘I’d be a terrible guitarist if I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you mind —?’

  ‘Name it.’

  She did. He played it. Again, she was rapt.

  Before long, Jiffy had finished his feed but Michelle had taken a seat among the pepper trees, listening to her requests. Everything she chose, he could play. Her tastes ranged from the modern charts to alternative to obscure one-hit wonders to classics. Like him, she was eclectic. A true music lover.

  She was younger than both Zara and him — fourteen, possibly fifteen. Swirled by short brown hair, she had fudge-coloured eyes, small breasts, taut legs and a dusting of freckles fading across her nose. Over a natural body shape, she wore blue shorts and a white and red T-shirt with Sesame Street’s Elmo printed in the middle. Encircling her right wrist were dozens of bracelets, leather straps, beads and cowries — all homemade. An anklet rested above her left foot, which was also decorated with shells.

  ‘Are you with a band?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’m not that talented.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’ve never heard a guitar played like that before.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she said.

  He glanced down while absently fiddling with the strings. Compliments always embarrassed him.

  ‘I wish I could play like that.’

  ‘You’re a guitarist?’

  ‘I tried once. Lost interest. My tutor was too serious, anyway.’

  ‘You always need a good teacher.’

  ‘Where did you learn? School?’

  ‘No, the only thing I learnt there was to hide.’

  ‘Hide?’

  ‘Yeah. You weren’t welcome if you were different. Every morning, recess and lunch you’d find me practising in the music room. I didn’t have many friends.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s true. The place was full of jocks. Footy made you a man. Music was for poofs.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘That’s school for you. Nothing makes sense.’

  He put aside the guitar and leant back on both palms. A memory of the vice-captain slamming him against the toilet wall came to mind. Music sheets flushing. Begging him not to break the guitar.

  ‘Well, you seem to be popular here,’ she offered. ‘Hayden’s a big fan of yours and Zara talks about you all the time.’

  ‘Yeah? What does she say?’

  ‘You know. The usual stuff: where you’re from, where you’ve travelled, the trouble you’ve both got into —’

  ‘In other words, she never stops talking,’ he joked. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only that you live with a ghost.’

  He snorted. ‘Old Clive?’

  ‘I think it’s creepy. Zara keeps telling us that you see cups and plates hovering across the room.’

  ‘You should see how they get washed up!’

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Zara! Hey!’ he said with a giant smile. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Nothing good, I hope.’ Gone was the daggy school uniform; in its place a white crop top and brown shorts. And the butterfly was back.

  ‘So what was going on here, huh?’ she sing-songed, flicking her eyes between them.

  They both stood up and moved apart. ‘Dean was playing a few songs on his guitar,’ Michelle explained.

  ‘Any requests?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe later.’ Then, turning to Michelle, she added, ‘Your oldies are looking for you. We’re all heading into Nuri in a moment to meet the lawyers.’

  ‘Okay. Let me do this one last chore —’

  ‘Sounds serious,’ he said.

  ‘No, not really.’ Zara shrugged. ‘Just family business.’

  ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Probably late. Mum’s dragging me to some art show afterwards.’

  Michelle came back and said she was ready. Zara led the way.

  ‘Well, whatever time you get back, come and see me, okay?’ he urged.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  When they’d left, he settled back with his guitar. This time, the music was more vibrant. Hopeful.

  Chapter 13

  Sick of beetroot salads, Dean and Hayden piked on another lunch at the Wallaces’ and drove into Nuriootpa with a craving for chicken-and-gravy rolls. Along the way, they stopped at a one-hour processor to collect a set of enlargements. Under an umbrella and between ice coffees, they fanned out the photographs on a plastic table. It wasn’t the usual array of red-eye specials, out-of-focus portraits or flash-up-the-nose group shots that grabbed Dean’s attention straightaway. It was the number of images of Zara. There she was arm-in-arm with Hayden and Michelle at a rock festival. Or dressed as Cleopatra at her sixteenth birthday party. Or wrestling with Hayden at the dam. Dean picked through the pictures, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. The last twelve months of her life were spread out before him. He could only imagine why.

  Lunch was brief because the trip back was long; an escape he was only too happy to exploit. They were walking to the Falcon parked up the street when he tossed his rubbish at a bin and missed.

  ‘Enjoy throwing away money, do you?’

  The man stepped from the doorway of an electrical retailer behind them. Dean recognised the voice immediately. ‘Sorry?’

  Constable Tom squeezed on his cap then rested his hand next his gun. ‘Money. You enjoy throwing it away?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That,’ the cop nodded to the scrunched up paper bag.

  ‘It’s only rubbish.’

  ‘Rubbish with a couple of twenty dollar notes inside.’

  Dean looked again. He didn’t see any money. ‘There’s only lettuce and mayo.’

  The cop pulled a notepad from his back pocket. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘I’m fining you for littering.’

  Dean baulked. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Tommy,’ Hayden sang.

  The cop took out a pen as well.

  ‘I was going to pick it up.’

  ‘That’s not what I saw.’

  Dean watched as Constable Tom scribbled his name and address. Incredible!

  ‘Tommy, what’s all this about?’ Hayden said.

  ‘It’s Dave Mason, isn’t it?’ the cop asked.

  ‘No, it’s Dean. You’re really going to fine me?’

  He ripped the page from his notepad and handed him the infringement. Sure enough, it was legit.

  ‘This better not be another practical joke,’ Dean told Hayden.

  ‘Do you see me laughing?’

  He shoved the notice into his pocket and marched away in disgust.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To pay my fine,’ he said sarcastically.

  Bad mistake.

  ‘Pick that up,’ the cop ordered.

  Hayden was closer. He scooped up the rubbish ball and binned it. ‘There. No harm
done. Now do the same to the fine, would you, Tommy?’

  The constable kept his gaze fixed. Drawing himself up to his full height, he walked slowly over to the bin, reached in and lobbed the rubbish back onto the pavement. It bounced near the gutter. ‘I said pick it up.’

  The three of them stared at each other — two stunned; the other with the arrogance of the law. Dean’s defiance was weakening. This was about more than a fine.

  Sensing it too, Hayden spoke up. ‘C’mon, mate. This isn’t funny anymore. We’re late for work.’

  ‘Pick-it-up.’

  Each word bounced like a sledgehammer.

  Dean hesitated. All he wanted was one line. One biting line about police harassment or a legal threat to scare away the cop. But the only words he found were on the paper bag that he dropped into the bin.

  ‘See,’ the cop said. ‘The street already looks cleaner.’

  Dean growled.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Hayden urged, tugging him towards the car. ‘Wallace’ll be screaming for our heads.’

  Dean was glad his friend had hold of him. There was still a prickling part of him keen to fight.

  And the cop was baiting him to do exactly that. ‘You know, Mr Mason, I almost didn’t recognise you. You’ve had a haircut, haven’t you?’

  ‘I s’pose you’re going to fine me for that as well.’

  ‘Now, c’mon, don’t be like that. I’m just a little confused. You were a blond last week.’

  He said nothing. Time to go.

  ‘Oh by the way, Dave,’ Constable Tom said, grabbing the passenger door before Dean could close it. ‘I’m thinking of heading up to Brisbane for a short holiday soon. What part did you say you were from?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘So enlighten me.’

  Dean freed the door. ‘Redcliffe,’ he said, slamming it behind him. Hayden started the engine, but Constable Tom still filled the window.

  ‘That out west somewhere?’

  He cursed and wound it down. ‘No. North. By the coast.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it. They play rugby there, don’t they? What’s the local team called?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not into sport.’

  ‘I’m not asking if you’re into sport. I’m asking what the local team is. Even people who hate sport know the name of their local team.’