The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  Dean stewed.

  ‘See you later, Tommy,’ Hayden said.

  The Falcon pulled out into the main street, leaving the cop behind. But just as he returned to his own car, the Falcon u-turned and sidled up beside him.

  ‘The Redcliffe Dolphins,’ Dean said. ‘And it’s league, not rugby.’

  Low in his seat and shadowing his eyes, he watched in the side mirror the cop car turn in the opposite direction to the service station that they’d stopped at. The Falcon rocked as the driver’s door shut and Hayden chucked him a Coke and a chocolate Drum-stick. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.

  Hayden cracked open his drink and bit into his ice cream. A mini-bus pulled up behind them and honked. He relaxed his seat and settled back instead of reaching for his belt.

  ‘You going to get moving?’

  ‘You going to start talking?’

  ‘We’ll be late.’

  ‘Then we’ll be late.’

  The Falcon left Nuriootpa for the far side of Truro with the windows fully wound down. Parked at a lookout above the Murray Plains, they both finished eating under separate trees before speaking again. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why is Tommy on your case all the time?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  Dean pushed his wrapper into his empty bottle and threw it hard at a bin. He missed. Several ewes stared up at him. ‘Man, I’m sick of sheep.’

  ‘Stop avoiding the question.’

  ‘Stop asking them.’

  Hayden shook his head. ‘I thought we were mates.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’

  ‘Then tell me what’s going on.’

  He walked forward and gripped some barbed wire, which strained but held his weight. ‘I don’t like that cop asking about my past. It’s none of his business.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘School, family — you name it.’

  ‘School? I thought you were backpacking.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I might have finished one day and never showed up again.’

  ‘What? You ran away?’

  The fence screeched as he pulled on it. ‘I like to call it getting my sanity back.’

  ‘Everybody hates school but it couldn’t have been that bad.’

  ‘Believe me — it was bad. The other kids — man, you should’ve seen them — most were frauds. They’d hate you by what you wore or what music you listened to. They’d stand on corners collecting for charity then bash you in the toilets afterwards. Even the ones that got picked on, they picked on those below them. And the cool guys’ — he snorted — ‘they’d sleep behind their girlfriend’s back and brag about it, making the rest of us part of their lies.’

  ‘That’s no reason to run away, though. There must be something more.’

  (A knock on the front door. A badge in his face.)

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘What about your parents then?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Aren’t they worried?’

  ‘Should they be?’

  ‘Do they even know —?’

  ‘Look, enough, okay. Let’s be like normal guys and not talk about our feelings, huh? I’m here. I’m happy. I don’t want that to change. Just don’t tell anyone, right?’

  ‘Yeah — sure. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  Off Guadalcanal

  10th August, ’42

  Dear Beatrice,

  I’ve always feared days like these. The enemy has surprised us and too many men have died because of simple mistakes. I’m tired of the fighting, the humidity and the death. I want to go home and forget about this war.

  That giant campaign I’ve been writing to you about? It was a surprise invasion of the Solomon Islands. However, I don’t know who got the bigger surprise — them or us. Everything started well. On the 7th, we approached Guadalcanal on smooth seas during the small hours, meeting no enemy fire. At dawn, we and the Quincy started firing salvos at the coast to clear the way for our transports and 15,000 US marines. It seems our original mission here involved capturing an airstrip that the Japs had been building for some time. A few hours later, the enemy came at us but we fought them back.

  On the 8th, two dozen Jap bombers and about 15 Zeros joined us for lunch. You should have seen the firefight. The sky was black with A.A. shell bursts, the sea was filled with crashed planes and my ears hurt with the sound of our guns. Bea, those Jap pilots, they must be crazy. Some of them fly so close to the water it’s a wonder a shark doesn’t eat them first. One even looked like he dove into the George F. Elliot on purpose!

  We were lucky ourselves. A damaged bomber took a fancy to the Aussie and hurtled so close to the Bridge it singed a few of my hairs on my head! Thankfully, it ended up crashing 100 yards away into the sea. Another dropped a torpedo on our starboard side but the Jarvis took that hit as she moved past us. Once again, I think this old girl is the safest place to be in this terrible war.

  After the battle, the capt’n sailed close enough to all the crashed bombers to give us a good look at them when we heard a Jap call out for help. He and two mates were aboard a rubber dinghy that the Jarvis threw a line down to. However, when the Japs got close enough, one pulled out a pistol and started shooting! He didn’t get the pleasure of wasting his last bullet on himself. The Jarvis boys turned their machine guns on him first. Deserving death too!

  We should have known there would be more trouble. The Japs wouldn’t abandon an important airstrip so easy. But everybody was exhausted and happy to hear no more warnings from radar that night. Besides, the Aussie was called away to anchor off Lunga Point so the admirals could hold a meeting. That was the first of many mistakes. While we were away, the Japs struck back. A surprise fleet attacked at 0130 near Savo Island. First they torpedoed the Canberra and the Chicago on the island’s south side then they went north and torpedoed three of the US cruisers. The first I knew of it was being woken from my bunk by the sounds of heavy surface fire and someone yelling, “That’s not one of ours.”

  I’m so glad you’re safe at home. You wouldn’t have the stomach for what I saw yesterday morning. More than 1000 of our men had been killed and who knows how many injured. Capt’n Getting is dead and all hands were ordered to abandon the Canberra. One of the US destroyers finally sank her. It’s the third one we’ve lost. There’s only three left.

  The US sailors are taking the defeat harder than the rest of us. They’ve lost a great deal more men and for many of them, it reminds them too much of Pearl Harbor.

  Please write back soon. Tell me of home. Tell me how Duckie’s baby is going. Tell me if South Sydney have won. Please, anything to get my mind off all this.

  Missing you every minute,

  Love always,

  Clive

  Chapter 14

  Picking the laundered remains of Old Clive’s letter from his back pocket, Dean binned them then walked round Zara’s bedroom. It was thick with half-naked men. They laughed, flexed, posed, pouted, strutted, showered, shaved, swam, wrestled and tackled. It was wall-to-wall jean jockeys and cologne boys. Conscious of his own awkward shape, he stood in front of a full-body mirror among the magazine models and puffed out his chest, comparing muscles until the hallway rang with footsteps. Quickly, he flopped on the edge of her bed and grabbed the Cosmopolitan magazine he’d been reading. 101 Ways to Win Over that Secret Crush. Three had already failed.

  She stopped at the same mirror, outfitted in a conservative green shirt, denim skirt and sandals. Her hair was down and her face free of make-up. Even dressed like a dag, she left him aching.

  ‘I feel bloated,’ she said, smoothing a hand across her flat stomach as she twisted left and right. ‘I bet girls like that never feel bloated.’ She flicked her eyes to the page he had paused at. All You Ever Wanted to Know About Sexually Transmitted Diseases but Were Too Afraid to Ask. Argh! Turn the page! Turn the page!

  ‘Do you still want to go out, then? We could get a mov
ie —’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine. Anything to get out of the house.’

  They met the General at the front door and she reluctantly dropped a set of car keys into Zara’s hand. ‘— I called the theatre myself. One o’clock. I want you back here straight afterwards — No, don’t “Oh, Mum” me. Keep your mobile on. And stick to the speed limit.’

  ‘Okay,’ Zara groaned, full-stopping it with a kiss.

  He followed her out to the veranda until she turned on her heel. ‘There is one last favour,’ she began with a childish smile.

  ‘How much?’ the General sighed, already reaching for her wallet.

  ‘Thirty? I’ll pay you back. Promise.’

  ‘Along with the rest of the money that you owe me? Sure. Take ten. I’ve just found this bloke here his fourth shearing contract. Make him pay for your ticket.’

  Then she said goodnight.

  The pair bypassed the old coach-house and crossed the creek. ‘We’re not taking the ute?’ he asked.

  Lights stuttered inside the hayshed, spotting two cars — a Nissan Bluebird and a second hidden under a dustcover. Zara played matador, uncloaking a restored 1957 Chevy Bel Air convertible! It came complete with stick shift, right-hand drive, white soft-top, mileage and original dash. Even better — it was red. Fast red. ‘Old Clive won’t mind, will he?’

  Moments later, they were a set of streaking taillights on the Sturt Highway with the soft top down and the radio up high. Well, maybe not a streak — more like a rolling bowling ball. Zara egged Dean on as he chased the speed limit but he feared the car’s shakes were almost terminal.

  ‘Quick! Turn here!’

  ‘Nuriootpa? You sure?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  The Chevy stopped outside a cream-brick two-bedroom home guarded by a chain-link fence, a bulldog and three kitsch black swans cut from car tyres. It was his first clue that they weren’t going to the movies. The second was Balesy and Michelle greeting them on the lawn dressed in their best clothes. ‘Get down, you flea taxi!’ he scolded Jelly as she jumped up with dusty paws.

  Zara grabbed her girlfriend and ran inside laughing. The two guys followed, Dean asking for answers that Hayden pretended not to know.

  Thirty minutes later, after much giggling, Michelle emerged from the bathroom followed by Zara and the two guys got up off the couch. A black, strappy top that showed plenty of skin, three-quarter pants and matching heels had replaced her daggy shirt and sandals. Bright, glossy lipstick and teased blonde hair completed the transformation from teenager to a woman in her mid-twenties.

  ‘Clubbing anyone?’ she said.

  ‘We’re not going to the movies?’ Dean asked dumbly.

  ‘Babe, where we’re going, I am the star!’

  She howled as the Chevy cruised along the highway to the city. Adelaide was one giant rock video that night. Thousands of revellers filled pubs, clubs, pool halls and converted churches quaking with dance music. Coloured lasers swirled like cocktails. Bouncers imitated granite. Gorgeous young women catwalked through café crowds, attracting meows from Romeos who didn’t have a chance. Parents sipped coffees, too afraid to look. Footy players sat on stools; vampires for cheap flattery and even cheaper love. Teenage boys drag-raced mum-mobiles between red lights, tooting Morse code on their car horns. In an alcove, a girl had her heart broken. Spring fever turned into Saturday night fever. And no one — no one — was going to miss the party.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a slick-haired guy said to Zara at one intersection. ‘Help me and my mates here. We’re having this argument. There are only twenty-five letters in the alphabet, right?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Then I must be missing U in my life.’

  They took off high-fiving as she rolled her eyes — but enjoyed the flattery all the same.

  Dean smelt the nightclub before he saw it. Perfume and aftershave spilled into the street along with the hundreds of beautiful people waiting to get inside. House music throbbed behind bouncers, whose job seemed to be keeping the not-so-beautiful people outside.

  ‘Are you sure they’ll let us in?’ Michelle had read his thoughts.

  ‘Distract them,’ Zara said, rolling up the bottom of their friend’s blue top. ‘Show some skin. They’re just men, after all.’

  Michelle wasn’t convinced. ‘It’s a long walk of shame,’ she said, watching a young couple sent to the end of the queue.

  ‘Don’t worry. If the bouncers hassle you, meet me in the back alley in five minutes. One of the bartenders is an ex-rousie.’

  ‘Ready?’ Hayden asked, cocking his arm for Zara to hold. Dean felt a rush of jealousy as he tucked his T-shirt into his jeans. He looked like a scruff.

  ‘Always,’ she answered.

  The pair led the group across the street and headed straight for the entrance. They strolled confidently between the bouncers without a challenge, much to the disgust of those queuing. ‘Who does she think she is?!’

  Michelle and Dean were next. Away from her best friend’s gaze, she uncurled her top and covered her stomach again. He felt his tighten. They took their first step inside. But it was as far as they got. Two opposing arms swung down like a tollgate. ‘Got some ID, little man?’ one bouncer asked.

  ‘No, someone stole —’

  ‘And you, miss?’

  ‘I left mine at home,’ she offered weakly.

  ‘McDonalds is up the road, kids,’ the second bouncer pointed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Zara said, suddenly reappearing.

  ‘They won’t let us in without ID,’ Michelle said.

  ‘C’mon, 8-1-3,’ Zara said, reading the first guy’s badge number. ‘They’re old enough.’

  ‘For kindergarten.’

  The queue taunted them as well.

  ‘Zara, it’s okay,’ Dean said. ‘We’ll catch up with you soon.’

  Five minutes later, they shadowed the kitchen door. It spilled open with music and greasy dim sim air. A female worker waved them in. ‘Hurry! Before you get me fired!’

  The sonic beat shook him and Michelle as they crept behind the bar, fingers sticking to the ground while staff avoided them with nonchalance. Barefooted, Zara was at the other end, spurring them forward. A bouncer was hunting. Zara grabbed Michelle’s hand, then ran into the crush. Dean hesitated. He’d lost them.

  Red, green, blue. The dance floor flashed with colour. Electronic music pounded from towering speakers as a way-too-cool DJ mastered the sound. The air sweated and ears smarted. Clubbers jumped, not knowing if there was a down.

  Off to one side, Dean was the odd-man-out. His thoughts were scattered. DEAFENED. Broken up by the beat. To his left a couple kissed. To the right, a zombie stood: dead-eyed and staring. Zara rescued him and wanted to know why he was a potato sack.

  ‘I’ve never been clubbing before!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve never been clubbing before!’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I’ve-never-been-clubbing-before!’

  ‘So what’s the problem? You know how to dance, don’t you?’

  No time for answers. She showed him how. With too many people watching, he stood stiff. ‘Who cares! They’ll never see you again!’ He flailed about and copied her rhythm. Soon, he was dancing — badly — but he was moving.

  A flash of orange then purple. Hayden appeared next to Zara and lured her away. He knew her moves like they’d done this before — lots of times.

  But it didn’t last. She circled him, then swapped him for Dean. She started teaching him new techniques that made him look even more uncoordinated. He persisted, though. Infused the beat.

  ‘Told you you could dance!’

  ‘Tell that to the five people whose toes I’ve broken!’

  She didn’t hear him but smiled anyway. He matched it and let the pulse take over. His heart was the thump, thump, thump of the bass; his throat — the wail of the electronica.

  The DJ jacked up the tempo. Elbows, hips
and skulls collided against each other and muscles burst with pain. Dean was a human strobe light, bouncing off the walls, spinning, and plugged into a whole new energy. The room was frantic — a sort of group therapy for the manically happy.

  His friends, his wonderful friends. They’d think he was mad. He searched for Zara. But found he had competition — posers lifted straight from the magazines. No need to fear. She pushed one away and laughed at another.

  Another change in tempo. Another change in partners. A girl beside him showed interest and he played along. She liked playing. He glanced over his shoulder — guilt maybe? — and spotted Hayden with Zara again. Thief! The new girl felt snubbed and chose a redhead instead.

  He shoved his way through the crowd but it was packed tight. An angry yelp — ‘Hey!’ — and a defensive boyfriend. Frustration flashed in time with the lights.

  He sought refuge by the bar with the clubbers, dealers, rejects and sharks. They were all there — thirsty for spirits, gossip and bragging rights. One guy got dumped while another joked to a yawning brunette. A third yelled into his mobile as he fought off people wanting his stool. No sign of Zara but a question from the bartender. More a game of charades. Water. Lots of water. With ice.

  A hand hooked him and reeled him through a tangle of people. Zara? No. A large girl — whoa! — in a small dress, skunked with rum and playing Juliet. ‘You promised me a kiss!’

  He felt her lips wriggle like two baitworms and heard her mates laugh in the background. Thankfully for him, he got away.

  Company arrived. Again, the wrong sort.

  ‘You seen Michelle?’ Hayden yelled. ‘We can’t find her anywhere.’

  Michelle? Michelle? Who cared about her?

  ‘Where’s Zara?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where’s Zara?!’

  ‘I think she’s outside.’

  Liar. Didn’t matter. He spotted her next to the cigarette machine with Michelle being chatted up by a guy double their age. Tag. Dean was it. His turn to rescue her.

  He led her back to the dance floor to enjoy the music — to enjoy his victory. Hayden lurked on the edges, fuming, and unchaining himself from girls not shy with introductions.